When  the  wedding  bells  are  rung, 

And  the  marriage  service  read; 
When  the  bride  song  has  been  sung, 

And  the  sweet  responses  said, 
You  will  know  by  each  sweet  token 

They  are  walking,  hand  in  hand, 
Now  that  all  Love's  vows  are  spoken, 

In  the  Happy  Marriage  Land. 


WEDDING  BELLS 

A  COLORADO  IDYL 


BY 

W.  E.  PABOR 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 

STANLEY  WOOD 


DENVER,  COLORADO 

PUBLISHED  BY  W.  E.  PABOR'S  SONS 
1900 


;:  Copyright^ 
'V..  PABOR'S  SONS, 


PREHH    OF 

the  Keea  Publishing  €o. 

DKNVER 


INSCRIBED    TO 

THE    BRIDES 

WHOSE    HAPPY    FORTUNE    IT   MAY   BE    TO 

INCLUDE  A  TOUR  THROUGH  SCENIC 

COLORADO    AS    PART    OF 

THEIR  WEDDING 

JOURNEY 

THE  AUTHOR 


331849 


Introduction. 

BY    STANLEY    WOOD. 

W.  E.  Pabor  has  a  gentle  and  poetic 
fancy.  He  writes  more  verse  than  any 
other  literary  man  in  Colorado,  and  by 
length  of  residence  and  amount  of  poetical 
work  accomplished,  deserves  the  title  of 
poet  laureate  of  the  Centennial  state  as  well 
as  that  conferred  upon  him  by  the  National 
Editorial  Association  when  it  made  him  a 
life  member  and  its  poet  laureate  in  1895. 
His  verse  flows  easily  and  gives  one  the  im- 
pression that  rhythmic  numbers  come  read- 
ily from  his  pen.  Stirring  themes,  dialect 
stories  and  "blood  and  thunder"  chroni- 
cles are  not  his  stock  in  trade.  He  sees 
the  idyllic  side  of  Western  life,  has  a  clear 
eye  for  picturesque  landscape,  touches  with 
rare  grace  the  chords  of  affection,  and  has 


VI 


Introduction. 


never,  I  am  sure,  written  a  line  of  verse 
that  carries  with  it  a  doubtful  moral  or  an 
improper  suggestion.  There  need  be  no 
vacant  spaces  in  his  works  marked  cetera 
desunt.  He  sings  of  love  but  not  of  pas- 
sion. He  has  a  profound  and  worthy  ap- 
preciation of  the  lares  and  penates,  but 
Venus  has  no  charms  for  him.  This  is 
high  praise  for  a  poet  who  lives  in  the  era 
of  "  Poems  of  Passion"  and  "Laus  Ven- 
ris."  His  muse  is  lyric.  Songs  of  pas- 
toral simplicity  and  beauty  come  naturally 
to  his  lips.  His  poems  abound  in  descrip- 
tions of  Nature  that  are  rhythmic,  accu- 
rate, suffused  with  poetic  fancy  and  calcu- 
lated to  please  and  to  instruct. 

As  a  writer  of  occasional  verses  Mr. 
Pabor  is  especially  happy.  He  always  has 
fitting  words  and  appropriate  thoughts  for 
poems  on  special  subjects,  suggested  by 
events  of  the  day.  His  poem  "The  Coral 
Workers,"  delivered  before  the  National 
Editorial  Association,  is  a  striking  exam- 
ple of  this  felicity  of  thought  and  expres- 


Introduction.  vii 

sion.  His  annual  poems  before  this  asso- 
ciation are  counted  upon  as  one  of  the 
attractive  features  of  the  literary  exer- 
cises. But  poetry  is  not  the  only  field  of 
literary  endeavor  cultivated  by  Mr.  Pabor. 
His  prose  is  as  practical  and  clear  as  his 
poetry  is  musical  and  pure.  He  writes  on 
subjects  dear  to  the  heart  of  the  husband- 
man. He  lives  close  to  nature.  He  does 
not  talk  about  things  he  does  not  under- 
stand. If  he  writes  about  farming  it  is  be- 
cause he  knows  what  he  is  talking  about, 
as  his  book  on  "  Colorado  as  an  Agricul- 
tural State"  goes  to  prove.  His  poetic 
fancy  does  not  fail  him  in  his  prose.  If 
he  describes  an  apple  tree  he  does  not 
forget  the  flowers;  if  he  estimates  the 
value  of  peach  culture  he  incidentally 
mentions  the  delicate  beauty  and  per- 
fume of  the  peach  bloom.  He  is  poeti- 
cal first  and  then  practical,  but  above  all 
he  is  an  honest  man,  an  affectionate  hus- 
band and  a  true  friend. 

The  time  has  not  yet  come  to  give  a 


viii  Introduction. 

final  judgment  on  Mr.  Pabor's  work.  His 
poems  have  never  been  collected  and  pre- 
sented in  a  form  worthy  of  their  merit, 
but  are  now  to  be  placed  before  the  pub- 
lic in  three  volumes,  of  which  this  is  the 
first,  the  others  to  follow  during  the  year. 
He  has  certainly  done  much  for  Colorado. 
The  influence  of  his  writings  has  been  ex- 
tended and  always  for  good.  Such  books 
will  certainly  command  attention,  and 
Colorado  will  be  by  that  much  the  richer 
in  literature,  a  kind  of  riches  of  which  the 
state  cannot  have  too  much  and  of  which 
it  now  possesses  altogether  too  little. 

As  a  man,  Mr.  Pabor  has  always  com- 
manded the  respect  of  his  fellows.  He 
has  never  striven  for  political  honors.  He 
has  lived  a  useful,  peaceful  and  practical 
life.  He  has  been  largely  identified  with 
the  progress  of  Colorado,  and  either  from 
chance  or  design,  has  always  been  in  the 
advance  of  the  march. 

CHICAGO,  February,  1900. 


Contents. 


PAGE 

PROLOGUE, 13 

I.  PALMER  LAKE, 15 

II.  MANITOU, 18 

III.  VALLEY   OF   LA   FONTAINE   Qui 

BOUILLE, 21 

IV.  LA  VETA  PASS, 23 

V.  SAN  Luis  PARK, 26 

VI.  Ojo  CALIENTE, 29 

Legend  of  the  Poisoned  Spring. 

VII.  PUEBLO  DE  TAGS,  33 

Legend  of  the  Palace  of  Silence. 

VIII.  TOLTEC  GORGE,      ....  38 

IX.  MOONLIGHT  ON  Rio  FLORIDA,      .  41 

An  Invocation. 

X.  MONTEZUMA  VALLEY,  ....  47 

XI.  ON  THE  Rio  DOLORES,  ...  52 

A  Lament. 

XII.  Rio  DE  LAS  ANIMAS  PERDIDAS,  .  57 

The  Wheel  of  Lethe. 


x  Contents. 

PAGE 

XIII.  FROM  SlLVERTON  TO  ClMARRON,  65 

XIV.  FROM  CIMARRON  TO  GUNNISON,  69 

Black  Canon. 

XV.  THE  VALE  OF  TOMICHI,        .       .  78 

XVI.  THE  ROYAL  GORGE,      ...  84 

XVII.  CANON'S  ORCHARD  LANDS,      .  89 

XVIII.  BUENA  VISTA  HOT  SPRINGS,  .  93 

The  Moon  Myth. 

XIX.  TWIN  LAKES, 102 

XX.  FREMONT  PASS, 106 

XXI.  MOUNT  OF  THE  HOLY  CROSS,    .  109 

XXII.  GLENWOOD  SPRINGS,   .      .      .113 

XXIII.  VALLEY  OF  GRAND  RIVER,     .  117 

The  Voices. 

XXIV.  BORDER  LAND,    .      .      .      .126 

XXV.  THE   STORY   OF   COLORADO 

SPRINGS, 128 

EPILOGUE, 140 


WEDDING  BELLS 


Prologue. 

Ring,  wedding  bells,  upon  the  air; 
Shine,  summer  sun,  upon  the  pair 
Who  from  the  altar  pass  as  one, 
Whose  wedded  life  has  just  begun; 
The  words  are  said  that  bind  for  life 
As  husband,  Claude;  and  Constance,  wife; 
Kind  friends  chime  in  with  merry  voice; 
The  young  and  old  with  each  rejoice; 
The  good  old  days  of  Eden  seem 
To  pour  their  glory  in  a  stream 
Of  sweet  delight  upon  the  pair, 
And  pleasure  waits  her  gifts  to  share 
In  bounteous  measure,  as  they  stand 
With  moistened  eyes  and  clasping  hand, 
Ready  to  meet  Fate's  stern  command 
Within  the  gates  of  Marriage  Land; 


14  Wedding  Bells. 

Yet  hopeful  that  the  hours  will  run 
As  brightly  as  they  have  begun. 

Claude: 

Dear  Love,  before  our  wedding  day 
We  had  some  converse  of  the  way 
In  which,  beneath  the  skies  of  June, 
We  were  to  spend  our  Honeymoon. 

Constance: 

Yes,  Claude;  but  not  to  lands  afar, 
Where  Southern  Cross  or  Northern  Star 
Shine  down  on  vale  or  plain  or  sea; 
These  have  their  charms,  but  not  for  me, 

Claude: 

Here  in  our  own,  our  favored  land, 
Are  lakes  as  fair  and  glens  as  grand 
As  other  climes  may  boast.     Nay,  more; 
Here  Nature  bids  our  hearts  adore. 

Constance: 
Oh,  happy  thought!     Our  Honeymoon 


Palmer  Lake.  15 

Begun,  but  not  to  end,  in  June, 
We'll  pass  amid  the  glens  and  rills 
And  in  the  shadow  of  the  hills. 

Constance  and  Claude: 
Come,  Love;  together,  hand  in  hand, 
We'll  wander  in  Enchanted  Land. 


I. 

Palmer  foafte. 

The  oars  dip  brightly  in  the  lake; 
The  waves  long  ropes  of  diamonds  make, 
As  in  the  boat  the  happy  pair 
Wake  happier  echoes  on  the  air. 
Upon  Ben  Lomond's  pine  clad  breast 
Chaste  Dian's  beams  of  silver  rest, 
In  Glen  D'Eau  there  gleams  a  light 
From  vine-wreathed  cottage  through  the 

night 

Whose  rays  suggest  that  comfort  waits 
The  pair  within  the  cottage  gates; 
But  spell  of  hill  and  glen  and  lake 


1 6  Wedding  Bells. 

Their  rapt  attention  wholly  take. 
The  cliffs  along  the  Snowy  Range 
All  in  the  moonlight  shift  and  change, 
Save  where,  on  Pike's  Peak's  stony  breast 
The  winter  snows  forever  rest. 
On  Palmer  Lake  the  boat  rides  clear 
While  whispered  words  in  willing  ear 
Repeat  the  vows  at  altar  said 
That  happy  day  when  they  were  wed. 
Row,  boatman,  row;  the  lake  lies  white 
Against  the  shadow  of  the  night; 
Drift  slowly  down  to  where  the  oar 
Meets  the  green  bosom  of  the  shore; 
There  is  no  magic  equals  this: 
Two  hearts  that  melt  into  one  bliss; 
While  Nature,  over  lake  and  glen, 
Smiles  down  on  Eden,  found  again; 
Where  love  gives  love,  for  true  love's  sake, 
Around  the  shores  of  Palmer  Lake. 
Now  cedared  woods  change  into  pine 
On  slopes  that  to  the  south  recline, 


SEVEN  FALLS,  CHEYENNE  CANON. 


Palmer  Lake.  17 

Till  Colorado  Springs  appears, 
The  Athens  of  these  later  years; 
Within  its  avenues  of  calm 
The  happy  couple  felt  the  balm 
That  floats  from  Pike's  Peak's  brow  of 

snow 

To  valley  lands  that  rest  below. 
Said  Claude:     "  Not  long  ago  these  slopes 
Were  barren  of  all  human  hopes. 
And  now,  a  stately  city,  planned 
With  grand  design  by  master  hand, 
Is  here;  we  have  no  time  to  stay 
But  later  we  must  spend  a  day 
Amid  these  vine-clad  homes,  to  find, 
Perchance,  one  suited  to  our  mind." 
Said  Constance:     "  We  have  but  begun 
Our  journey;  ere  its  course  is  run 
We  may  behold — and  yet,  this  seems 
A  city  wherein  pleasure  streams 
On  scented  waves  of  sweet  delight 
To  soothe  the  soul  and  charm  the  sight." 


1 8  Wedding  Bells. 

II. 

Manifou. 

Beside  La  Fontaine's  silvery  stream 

The  happy  couple  walk  and  dream; 

Here  Nature  in  her  summer  guise 

Shows  where  a  realm  of  wonder  lies. 

They  watch  the  rippling  waters  flow 

In  mad,  delirious  haste  below; 

Born  in  yon  rocky  nests  of  snow 

They  flash,  they  foam,  they  fall,  they  flow 

Adown  the  hillside  to  the  plain, 

And  seek  a  pathway  to  the  main. 

The  days  are  full  of  dear  delight 

And  pleasure  crowns  each  starry  night, 

As  here  they  spend  a  week  of  rest 

And  find  repose  on  Nature's  breast. 

The  Garden  of  the  Gods,  sublime, 

And  elemental  work  of  Time, 

Filled  with  fantastic  groups  of  stone, 

They  gaze  on  and  its  wonders  own. 


Manitou.  19 

Glen  Eyrie's  fairy-like  retreat 
Reveals  its  charms;  their  willing  feet 
Linger  where  the  clematis  shades 
And  hides  the  wild  rose  of  the  glades. 
In  Cheyenne  Canon,  with  its  walls 
Of  granite,  near  the  Rainbow  Falls, 
They  loiter;  Shadowland  is  here; 
The  murmur  of  the  stream  is  near; 
They  fancy,  as  it  flows  along, 
It  sings  anew  their  wedding  song, 
In  which  life's  hopes  and  wishes  blend, 
And  Love  is  present  to  the  end. 
At  Rainbow  Falls  they  see  the  arc 
Of  iridescence  crown  the  dark; 
The  waters  through  the  rock  rifts  run — 
They  slip,  they  slide,  in  shade  and  sun, 
While  Hope,  the  Angel,  seems  to  rest 
Upon  the  rainbow's  shining  breast. 
Up  Pike's  Peak  trail  they  slowly  climb 
To  see  the  mysteries  sublime 
Of  Nature,  in  her  wildest  mood, 


20  Wedding  Bells. 

Her  peaks  snow-crowned  in  solitude, 
But  gladly  drop  to  vales  below 
Where  magic  springs  their  bubbles  throw. 
"Drink,  dearest  one;  perchance  'twill  be 
The  fabled  fount  of  youth  to  thee ! " 
"Nay,"  she  replies,  "but  you  as  well 
Must  feel  the  fountain's  magic  spell; 
Could  I  grow  young,  while  you  are  old? 
Nay,  Love;  nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  gold 
Could  tempt  my  lips  to  touch  such  wine 
If  it  were  not  to  rest  on  thine." 
A  friendly  shadow  hid  the  pair; 
Sibilant  sounds  fell  on  the  air; 
Ah,  Love!  with  kisses  crown  the  day! 
Ah,  Love!  in  kisses  melt  away. 


Valley  of  La  Fontaine  Qui  Bouille.    21 

III. 
Valley  of  ba  {Ponfaine  ^ui  Bouille. 

Now  where  La  Fontaine's  waves  are  borne, 
Between  the  fields  of  growing  corn, 
The  green  alfalfa  meadows  crept 
To  where  the  rapid  waters  swept; 
The  stately  cottonwoods  threw  round 
A  cooling  shadow  on  the  ground; 
The  bluebirds  and  the  meadow-doves 
Twittered  and  tattled  of  their  loves; 
An  air  of  languor  slowly  fell 
Upon  them,  with  its  amorous  spell; 
As  if  in  happy  land,  or  vale 
Of  Rasselas  they  walked.     No  sail 
White  flecked  against  the  horizon 
Moved  down  the  stream.     The  setting  sun 
Its  crimson  rays  on  peak  and  cone 
Dropped  with  a  glory  all  its  own; 
And  Nature,  in  her  robe  of  June, 
Waited  the  rising  of  the  moon. 
"O,  sing  some  song  to  suit  the  scene 


22  Wedding  Bells. 

Of  rippling  wave  or  meadow  green," 
Said  Claude;  "the  evening  air  is  clear; 
Let  music  melt  upon  the  ear." 
Her  mandolin  sweet  Constance  took, 
She  sang  the  Tennysonian  "Brook" 
In  strains  as  low,  as  sweet,  as  clear 
As  if  a  seraph  from  the  sphere 
Beyond  the  circles  of  the  moon 
Had  floated  down  to  strike  the  tune. 
Both  rising  moon,  with  silver  beams, 
And  setting  sun  with  crimson  gleams 
Hung  low,  till  on  the  horizon 
Their  lines  of  color  blent  in  one. 
Oh,  happy  day!  Oh,  happier  eve! 
No  tears  to  shed,  no  grief  to  grieve! 
Oh,  happy  groom!  Oh,  happier  bride! 
Who  in  this  pleasant  vale  abide. 


La  Veta  Pass.  23 

IV. 

ba  Vefa  Pass. 

These  mighty  peaks!     Twin  cones  in  air! 

What  name  is  worthy  of  the  pair? 

This  Indian  title  on  them  rests, 

The  Wahatoya  or  Twin  Breasts; 

Such  rounded  forms,  such  perfect  shapes, 

While  spruce  and  pine  each  outline  drapes, 

And  rising  gracefully  on  high, 

Their  summits  kiss  the  bending  sky; 

The  warm  blue  sky,  the  bright  blue  sky, 

To  which  we  look  with  loving  eye — 

The  portal  to  the  Home  above, 

The  City  of  Eternal  Love. 

Another  name  strange  land  bespeaks, 

Some  know  them  as  the  Spanish  Peaks. 

The  ancient  Cavaliers  of  Spain, 

Bold  buccaneers  who  sailed  the  main, 

Austere  Hidalgos,  stern  of  face, 

And  troubadours,  of  gentle  race, 

Who  from  the  Southland  upward  came 


24  Wedding  Bells. 

In  search  of  riches  and  of  fame, 
Upon  the  mountains  gazed  with  awe, 
Then  vanished  to  return  no  more. 
So  Claude  discoursed  as  to  the  west 
They  slowly  journeyed,  while  the  crest, 
Sangre  de  Christo's  stately  crest, 
Lay  snow-capped  in  eternal  rest. 
La  Veta  mountain,  stern  and  bold 
Before  them  loomed;  defiles  as  old 
As  Adam's  day,  with  rugged  face 
Show  contrasts  quaint,  beside  the  grace 
With  which  the  flashing  Huerfano 
Its  sprays  of  water  round  them  throw. 
The  way  is  devious  and  steep; 
Below,  a  valley,  dense  and  deep; 
Above,  a  rugged  mountain  side; 
Around,  a  vista  opening  wide; 
Majestic  plains  expand  to  view 
And  seem  to  melt  into  the  blue. 
Sierra  Blanca's  noble  brow, 
A  monarch  to  which  mountains  bow 


La   Vet  a  Pass.  25 

(A  monarch  worthy  of  his  throne) 
Looms  grandly  through  the  cloud-flecked 

zone. 
On  Mule  Shoe  Curve  the  clouds  drop 

down; 

On  Nature's  face  appears  a  frown; 
And  drops  of  rain  that  change  to  snow 
Fall  on  the  couple  as  they  go 
Their  onward  and  their  upward  path, 
Facing  the  summer's  wintry  wrath. 
Now,  suddenly  the  warm  sun  leaps 
Out  of  the  dark  and  round  them  sweeps; 
Below  them  drift  the  fleecy  clouds, 
Wrapping  the  pine-crowned  ledge  in 

shrouds, 

But  waves  of  sunshine  round  them  roll 
And  sweet  content  is  in  each  soul. 
The  sweet  content  that  from  above 
Drops  into  loving  hearts,  when  Love, 
With  honor  crowned,  fills  human  breast 
With  heavenly  balm  for  earthly  rest. 


26  Wedding  Bells. 

V. 

§ar\  buis  Park. 

In  cheerful  mood  they  saunter  forth 
Along  the  River  of  the  North; 
The  valley  lands  through  which  they  pass 
Are  rich  with  undulating  grass; 
The  patient  kine,  in  pastures  green, 
Make  up  a  quiet,  rural  scene; 
The  farmhouse  and  the  fields  of  grain, 
Stretching  far  out  upon  the  plain, 
Bespeak  the  thrifty  farmer's  nest 
Set  close  to  loving  Nature's  breast. 
North,  east  and  west  the  mountains  rise; 
Their  snowy  summits  seek  the  skies; 
There,  snow-crowned  peaks;  here,  mead- 
ow-lands 

And  homes  built  up  by  sturdy  hands, 
Where  human  hearts  live  out  their  lives, 
And  on  each  gift  of  Ceres  thrives. 
Beyond,  the  village  spires  they  mark 
The  Monte  Vista  of  the  park, 


San  Luis  Park.  27 

Where  temperance  its  promise  throws, 

Above  contentment  and  repose. 

The  curse  that  crowns  the  cup  of  wine 

Is  held  aloof;  there  is  no  sign 

Of  sorrow  over  ruined  hopes; 

No  drunkard  in  the  shadow  gropes; 

And  well  for  human-kind  'twould  be 

If  from  these  mountains  to  the  sea 

The  Prohibition  gonfalon 

Floated  from  rise  to  set  of  sun. 

Claude: 
We  seek  a  home;  shall  it  be  here? 

Constance: 

Nay,  Love,  not  yet;  there  may  appear 
Some  other  valley  fairer  far, 
Where  brighter  fields  of  verdure  are; 
Have  we  not  read  of  fruitful  climes, 
Of  warmer  vales,  where  summer  times 
Are  long,  and  under  tree  and  vine 
A  second  Eden  seems  to  shine? 
Our  journey  scarcely  has  begun! 


28  Wedding  Bells. 

You  cannot  wish  that  it  were  done? 
There  are  the  mountains  yet  to  climb, 
The  canons  to  explore,  where  Time, 
For  ages  upon  ages  kept 
Weird  secrets,  while  the  savage  crept 
About  in  ignorance  and  doubt. 

Claude: 

Hold,  sweet,  I  yield;  come,  turn  about, 
For  see — the  sun  drops  down  the  hills, 
The  rapid  fall  of  twilight  fills 
The  air  with  balm.     One  kiss  to  show, 
I  am  forgiven— 

Constance: 

More?     No,  no,  no! 
One  is  enough;  keep  quiet,  Claude! 
One  kiss  is  all  I  can  afford 
To  give  you  now  until — until— 
Well,  just  one  more;  and  now,  KEEP  STILL! 

Oh!  Pleasure's  crown  of  pleasure  this, 
To  kiss,  and  then,  again  to  kiss! 


Ojo  Calient e.  29 

VI. 

©jo  (Jalienfe. 

Near  Cerro  Colorado's  breast 
Ponce  de  Leon's  fountains  rest; 
The  healing  waters,  crystal  clear, 
Youth's  strength  renews  from  year  to 
year. 

In  ages  gone  the  Indians  came 
To  drink  from  springs  of  saline  fame; 
And  be  they  warm  or  be  they  cold 
They  suit  the  young  and  charm  the  old. 
Each  one  some  healing  virtue  shows, 
And  yields  a  balm  for  mundane  woes; 
The  ills  that  rack  the  human  frame, 
The  woes  that  have  one  common  name, 
All  yield  before  the  magic  spell, 
Where  the  bright,  bubbling  waters  dwell. 
Said  Claude:     "This  is  a  charming  nook; 
How  beautiful  the  pine  trees  look, 
Dark  in  shadow  against  the  breast 
Of  table-lands  against  the  west; 


30  Wedding  Bells. 

Yon  rippling  brook  with  laughter  runs 
Down  to  the  land  of  summer  suns; 
Born  of  the  mountain  snow  and  rain, 
But  glad  to  frolic  through  the  plain; 
Here  romance  should  its  page  unfold 
About  these  fountains,  centuries  old." 
"I  read,"  said  Constance,  ''yesterday 
A  tale  that  served  to  charm  away 
An  idle  hour,  so  I'll  repeat 
The  Legend  of  the  Poisoned  Wheat." 

LEGEND  OF  THE  POISONED  SPRING. 

Each  dusky  brave  forsook  the  game; 

In  holiday  attire  they  came 

From  far-off  wood  and  vale  and  plain 

To  meet  the  Cavaliers  of  Spain; 

Who,  from  the  South  and  from  the  East 

Had  gathered  to  a  Harvest  Feast. 

Some  came  in  love  and  some  in  hate, 

The  bond  of  peace  to  celebrate. 

The  Spaniard  brought  his  gift  of  wheat, 

The  Indian's  maize  lay  at  his  feet, 


Ojo  Calient e.  31 

And  wine  of  elderberries  flowed 

Like  rain  along  a  mountain  road. 

In  dance  and  song  the  moments  passed, 

Until  the  moon  at  midnight  cast 

Its  golden  glamour  o'er  the  springs; 

Then  into  one  the  Spaniard  flings 

His  gift  of  wheat.     To  watch  it  sink, 

The  Indians  gathered  round  the  brink, 

And  danced  and  cried  in  maudlin  glee 

The  wheat-filled  bubbling  fount  to  see. 

Each  in  it  dipped  his  cup  of  horn 

And  drank  his  fill.    *  *  *     At  early  morn 

The  dusky  braves  lay  stark  and  grim 

Beside  the  poisoned  fountain's  rim. 

The  Spaniard,  led  by  lust  of  gold 

To  seek  Cibola's  wealth  untold, 

Had  journeyed  hither.     Face  was  white, 

But  heart  was  black  as  starless  night. 

With  honeyed  words,  with  song  and  dance, 

They  hid  the  Indian's  bow  and  lance; 

And  while  the  song  of  peace  they  sing 


32  Wedding  Bells. 

They  dropped  the  poison  in  the  spring. 


Said  Claude:     "  Where  saint  and  savage 

meet 

The  savage  ever  finds  defeat. 
As  ever  since  the  Mayflower's  day, 
When  on  the  beach  at  Plymouth  Bay 
The  Saxon  and  the  Indian  race 
Met  in  dire  battle,  face  to  face. 
Well  has  'H.  H.'  the  story  spun; 
The  records  of  dishonor  run 
Across  two  centuries  of  years 
In  spite  of  Mercy's  pleas  or  tears. 
Come,  Love,  the  waters  drink,  and  then 
We'll  take  our  onward  way  again." 


TOLTEC  GORGE. 


Pueblo  de  Taos.  33 

VII. 

Pueblo  de  (paos. 

Constance: 

You  left  me,  Love,  an  hour  or  so, 
All,  all  alone;  why  did  you  go? 
Has  ennui  come  so  very  soon 
To  cloud  our  happy  Honeymoon? 

Claude: 

I  left  you?     Yes;  but  not  from  grief; 
Rather  to  find  an  hour's  relief 
From  a  surfeit  of  happiness, 
When  within  reach  of  your  caress! 

Constance: 

How  sweet  to  think — but  stay!  You  know 
The  moments  passed  away  so  slow, 
To  while  away  the  tedious  time, 
I  jotted  down  a  little  rhyme. 

Claude: 

A  poet,  you?     I  did  not  know 
I  had  such  treasure  won;  and  so, 


34  Wedding  Bells. 

Since  you  have  written  rhymes,  you  see, 
Tis  fair  you  read  them  all  to  me. 

Constance: 

'Tis  but  a  Legend,  vague  and  faint, 
Of  olden  days,  when  Spanish  saint 
In  Monastery  lone  and  dim 
Sang  Matin  song  and  Vesper  hymn. 
But  in  one  Temple  silence  crept 
On  all  things  human.     No  man  wept 
And   no  monk  smiled.     No   words  were 

said; 

Each  walked  about  as  of  the  dead. 
Only  at  intervals  a  bell 
Struck  this  sad  warning:     "All  is  well; 
Another  hour  of  vital  breath 
Has  fled,  and  so  much  nearer,  death." 
Perchance  this  was  the  very  place; 
These  ruins  in  their  rugged  grace 
The  Silent  Palace  might  have  been 
Where  Silence  served  to  shrive  from  sin. 


Pueblo  de  Taos.  35 

Claude: 

Sweetheart,  your  thought  seems  so  sub- 
lime. 

Surely,  when  it  is  set  to  rhyme 

It  must  fall  sweetly  on  the  ear; 

Let  me  the  ancient  Legend  hear. 

LEGEND    OF   THE    PALACE    OF    SILENCE. 

A  monk  in  the  Palace  of  Silence 

Sat  counting  his  amber  beads; 
With  white  and  tapering  fingers 

That  trembled  like  wind-swept  reeds; 
But  never  a  word  he  uttered, 

And  never  a  sound  was  thrown, 
Through  the  alabaster  cloisters 

In  the  amethystine  zone. 

Vows  of  perpetual  silence 

He  uttered,  who  walked  therein; 

In  the  world  he  left  behind  him, 
He  had  left  all  worldly  sin; 

From  his  cell  out  into  the  chapel, 


36  Wedding  Bells. 

From  shrine  back  into  his  cell, 
Each  walked  as  he  meditated, 
But  he  spake  no  syllable. 

Only  the  water-clock  ticking 

And  only  the  striking  bell, 
As  they  told  the  time  of  praying, 

On  the  solemn  silence  fell. 
And  this  was  the  hourly  message: 

"Thou  art  so  much  nearer  death, 
O  monk  of  the  rueful  visage! 

O  mortal  with  failing  breath!" 

Outside  there  were  blooming  gardens, 

The  richest  that  Nature  knew; 
Where  the  red,  red  rose  of  passion 

By  the  saintly  lilies  grew. 
But  even  the  birds  were  banished, 

Lest  their  song  should  be  a  sin, 
By  suggesting  thoughts  of  pleasure 

Where  pleasure  had  never  been. 


Pueblo  de  Taos.  37 

The  only  sound  of  disturbance, 

In  the  leafy  solitudes, 
Was  the  tread  of  feet,  soft  sandaled, 

The  rustle  of  long,  white  robes 
Of  the  monks  among  the  lilies, 

With  a  face  as  white  and  calm, 
With  a  body  born  of  passion 

But  a  soul  baptized  with  balm. 
But  oh!  in  the  lonely  vigil 

Of  the  weary  day  or  night, 
Did  they  see  no  mocking  vision 

Of  an  Elim  of  delight? 
Or  echo  of  song  or  laughter 

From  virginal,  rosebud  lips? 
Or  tremulous  speech  of  Eros 

When  the  moon  was  in  eclipse? 

In  the  silence  of  life  made  equal 
To  the  silence  born  of  death, 

In  their  amethystine  palace 
(So  the  ancient  legend  saith), 

In  a  solemn  soul  communion, 


38  Wedding  Bells. 

With  all  worldly  sins  forgiven, 
Each  monk  for  the  message  waited 
That  would  waft  his  soul  to  Heaven, 

But  the  palace  gates  are  broken, 

And  ruined  the  jasper  walls; 
And  within  each  sacred  chamber 

The  owl  to  his  fellow  calls. 
While  each  votary  of  silence, 

Each  heart  that  was  hard  as  stone, 
Has  into  the  vanished  ages 

Forever  and  ever  flown. 


VIII. 


At  Toltec  Gorge  the  tourists  wait; 
They  pass  the  awesome  tunnel  gate; 
They  peer  below  through  depths  pro- 

found; 

A  dropping  stone  creates  no  sound 
When  falling  through  the  shades  of  night 


Toltec  Gorge.  39 

That  can  be  heard  upon  the  height. 

A  precipice  of  splintered  rocks, 

Result  of  huge  Titanic  shocks 

That  indicate  an  older  world 

When  Chaos,  crags  and  boulders  hurled, 

And  sat  in  triumph  on  its  throne, 

The  only  monarch  Earth  would  own. 

Far  down  the  gorge  a  ribbon  white 

As  snow-shine  gleamed  upon  the  sight; 

A  fringe  of  verdure  crowned  the  scene — 

A  silver  warp  in  woof  of  green; 

The  water  in  the  distance  ran 

In  silence,  and  unheard  by  man; 

Too  far  below  the  ripples  run 

To  catch  the  kisses  of  the  sun. 

A  mystery  of  Time  is  here, 

A  wonder  of  the  Hemisphere; 

Hard  by  the  scene  a  shaft  of  stone 

Stands  in  the  silence  and  alone. 

A  single  word  the  story  tells 

At  which  a  nation's  bosom  swells 


4O  Wedding  Bells. 

With  sorrow,  for  a  Hero's  fate, 
A  princely  ruler,  grand  and  great. 
The  day  they  laid  his  form  away 
This  stone  was  lifted  to  the  day; 
Ten  thousand  feet  above  the  tide, 
Between  two  oceans  that  divide 
The  Western  from  the  Eastern  world. 
His  name  is  evermore  impearled 
Upon  this  monument  to  Fame, 
Graved  as  it  is  with  GARFIELD'S  name. 
When  centuries  have  run  their  race 
And  later  nations  take  our  place 
In  spheres  of  action  (even  as  now 
We  gaze  upon  a  Pharaoh's  brow 
Dead  for  three  thousand  years  or  more), 
So  then,  some  searcher  will  explore 
These  Toltec  hills  and  find  this  shaft, 
Sign  of  a  skillful  workman's  craft, 
Will  read  the  name  upon  the  stone 
And  say,  he  lived  in  ages  gone, 
A  mighty  ruler  of  the  land, 


Toltec  Gorge.  41 

Slain  by  a  foul  assassin's  hand. 
A  mortal,  with  a  mortal's  breath, 
But  made  immortal  by  his  death. 


IX. 

Moonli^f  on  ffye  l^io  plortda. 

Southward,  to  reach  the  San  Juan's  breast, 

The  Rio  Florida  runs  to  rest; 

Wild  roses,  with  rich  verdure  rank, 

Peep  through  the  bushes  on  each  bank; 

The  larkspur  and  wild  cypress  vine 

In  azure  and  in  scarlet  shine; 

The  sunflower  in  its  crown  of  gold 

And  stately  mien  looks  over-bold; 

The  meadow  daisy  at  its  feet 

In  modest  grace  is  far  more  sweet; 

Abronias  whiten  plain  and  hill, 

And  mirabilis  blooms  at  will 

Through  many  a  sunny  afternoon 

To  welcome  in  the  rising  moon; 

Penstemons  scarlet,  pink  and  blue, 


42  Wedding  Bells. 

And  brilliant  gilias,  are  in  view. 

A  floral  host,  to  crown  the  hours, 

Is  found  beside  the  stream  of  flowers. 

The  moon  is  growing  full  and  round; 

Its  lines  of  brilliant  light  abound 

And  drape  the  lovers  as  they  walk; 

It  listens  to  their  loving  talk, 

As  it  has  listened  since  the  hour 

When  Eve  and  Adam,  in  the  bower 

Of  Eden,  in  each  other's  face 

Looked  and  found  Love,  with  witching 

grace, 

Glancing  with  meek  and  mild  surprise 
Out  of  the  depths  of  smiling  eyes. 

Claude: 

Fit  hour  for  reverie  is  this! 
And  by  yon  moon  I  swear,  my  bliss 
Is  growing  like  it,  round  and  full, 
To  make  life  bright  and  beautiful. 

Constance: 
My  thoughts  have  run  upon  the  moon 


Moonlight  on  the  Rio  Florida.       43 

Each  idle  hour  this  afternoon; 

I'll  give  them  utterance  now,  or  wait; 

Perchance  the  hour  is  very  late! 

Claude: 

Dear  heart,  the  time  befits  the  theme; 
The  moon  is  shining  on  the  stream; 
I  at  thy  feet  could  sit  for  hours 
And  listen,  by  this  stream  of  flowers. 

AN   INVOCATION. 

O  quiet  Moon.     Thy  rays 
Are   chariots,   by  which  we    mount  in 

dreams 
And  swiftly  speed   away  from  earthly 

cares, 

And  in  thy  bosom  our  Elysiumr  find. 
We  know  thy  story  from  the  earliest 

years; 
Thy  Queenship  antedates  e'en  Adam's 

day; 
Thy  chronicles  are  filled  with   Eden's 

bloom; 


44  Wedding  Bells. 

Ere  fell  the  shadow  on  the  sinning  pair, 
Ere  swung  the  sword  before  its  closing 

gate. 
Thy  silvery  beams  shone  down  on  Noah's 

ark 

And  welcomed  it  to  rocky  Ararat! 
And  when  the  stones  of  the  first  pyramid 
Were  laid,  the  grand  name  of  Rameses 

sent 

No  tremor  to  thy  breast,  as  unto  theirs 
Who  bent  to  do  the  bidding  of  the  King. 
To  thee  the  bosom  of  the  earth  is  bare; 
It  has  no  riddle  that  thou  canst  not  read; 
It  offers   nothing   that   thou   hast    not 

known. 

Invoked  by  Jason  as  he  sailed  the  sea, 
First   watched   by  bold  Chalde   in   an 

eclipse, 
Loved  by  Columbus  as  he  crossed  the 

main, 
Companion  of  the  Mayflower  pilgrim 

band, 


Moonlight  on  the  Rio  Florida.       45 

Man's  comforter  in  every  age  and  land, 
Blessed  by  the  sick,  beloved  by  old  and 

young, 
What  tongue  can  utter,  or  what  pen  can 

trace, 
The  spell  that  lingers  round  thy  shining 

arc? 

Oh,  let  my  soul  float  on  thy  silvery  tide; 
Still  of  thy  happy  valleys  let  me  dream; 
Still  let  me  feel  my  feet  are  on  the  road 
That  leads  earth's  wanderers  to  thy  bless- 
ed home. 

This  world  at  best  is  but  a  field  of  thorns, 
And  life  is  evermore  with  sorrow  rife; 
And  tender  are  the  feet  that  daily  tread 
The  wine-press  of  a  sad  experience; 
And  in  the  morning  and  the  sultry  noon 
Life's   harp  hath  strings  forever  out  of 

tune, 

Until  the  quiet  night,  with  sovereign  balm, 
Like  that  of  Gilead,  in  her  tender  touch, 


46  Wedding  Bells. 

Leans  the   sad  soul  upon  her  pillowy 

breast 

And,  all  divorced  from  sorrow  and  from  sin, 
We  kiss  the  Lotus  of  Forgetfulness. 

Oh,  quiet  moon! 

Calm  sphere  of  silver  in  a  sea  of  sky! 
Bend  down  and  let  me  on  thy  bosom  rest! 
So  shall  I  have  a  respite  from  all  care; 
So  shall  my  weary  spirit  find  repose; 
So  shall  I  dream  this  happy  dream  again 
Lost  in  the  shining  Valley  of  the  Blest. 

Low  hangs  the  moon,  as  if  to  bless 
And  teach  the  pair  forgetfulness; 
Low  hangs  the  moon;  it  smiles  to  see 
Caress  as  close  as  one  can  be 
When  lip  meets  lip,  and  clasping  arm 
Holds  heart  to  heart — each  safe  from 

harm; 

Inmates  of  earthly  Eden  bowers 
Arising  by  the  stream  of  flowers. 


Montezuma   Valley.  47 

X. 

Monfe^uma  Valie^. 

Out  from  Durango's  charming  town 
Constance  and  Claude  went  riding  down; 
They  crossed  the  river  of  Lost  Souls 
Whose  silvery  current  southward  rolls; 
The  trees  that  lined  the  river's  ledge, 
The  grass  that  fringed  the  river's  edge, 
The  clover  in  the  meadow  land, 
The  birds  that  sang  on  every  hand, 
The  warm  bright  sun,  the  clear  blue  sky 
All  cheered  them  as  they  journeyed  by. 
They  crossed  the  hills  and  took  their  way 
To  where  the  sun,  at  close  of  day, 
Drops  down  behind  horizon  bars 
And  signals  in  the  twinkling  stars. 
O'er  verdurous  plain,  through  pleasant 

park 

They  pass,  and  Nature's  beauties  mark; 
They  cross  the  Mancos  on  their  way 


48  Wedding  Bells. 

And  in  its  valley  fain  would  stay; 
It  seemed  so  fair,  all  Nature's  face 
Was  ruddy  with  uncultured  grace; 
Rugged  and  rough  but  everywhere 
Crowned  with  an  unpolluted  air. 
Full  soon  they  stand  within  the  pale 
Of  Montezuma's  famous  vale; 
A  valley  of  extreme  delight 
It  bursts  upon  the  lovers'  sight; 
Strange  silence  sat  on  hill  and  plain; 
There  ran  no  river  to  the  main, 
The  pine  trees  on  the  ridges  stood 
Sole  warders, of  the  solitude; 
The  mounds  upon  the  mesa,  strewn 
With  broken  pottery  and  stone, 
Were  symbols  of  an  ancient  race 
That  once  made  vocal  all  the  place. 
Here  Constance  found  some  ancient 

charms— 

An  onyx  bracelet  for  the  arms, 
A  topaz  ear-drop,  which,  perchance, 


CLIFF  DWELLINGS. 


Montezuma   Valley.  49 

Some  Aztec  princess  wore  at  dance; 
While  Claude,  in  search  of  relics  old, 
Dug  from  a  heap  of  ashen  mould 
Some  cobs  of  corn,  whose  grains  were 

food 

In  nourishing  a  household  brood; 
The  evidence  of  peace  and  thrift 
In  ages  long  gone  by,  whose  drift 
Thus  stranded  on  these  mesa  lands 
Bespoke  a  race  whose  toiling  hands 
Found  in  the  soil  the  foods  that  bless: 
The  corn  and  wine  of  cheerfulness. 
But  who  shall  open  wide  the  page 
And  tell  the  story  of  that  age? 
That  far-off  age  and  unknown  race 
Who  once  made  populous  the  place? 
In  this  new  land  which  seems  so  old 
Each  stone  some  secret  doth  enfold; 
The  air  with  mystery  is  rife, 
Suggestive  of  some  ancient  strife; 
Each  cliff  an  Aztec  home  reveals, 


50  Wedding  Bells. 

Each  silent  chamber  close  conceals 

The  secret  of  their  rise  and  fall; 

Oblivion's  veil  is  over  all. 

But  he  who  reads  can  note  the  signs, 

Written  in  clear,  unfading  lines, 

Of  still  another  change  to  be, 

In  which  once  more  the  vine,  the  tree, 

The  corn  field,  will  be  found  again; 

A  later  race  shall  fill  the  plain; 

The  hum  of  traffic  will  arise 

Where  silence  now  reigns  'neath  the  skies; 

A  thousand  homes,  where  death  and  birth 

Shall  sadness  make  or  bless  the  earth 

In  years  to  come,  will  here  be  found 

Where  solitude  gives  place  to  sound — 

The  sound  of  singing,  such  as  comes, 

When  happiness  crowns  earthly  homes. 

Claud:e 

Is  this  fair  vale  through  which  we  pass 
The  happy  vale  of  Rasselas? 
And  could  we  not,  sweet  Constance,  find 


Montezuma  Valley.  51 

A  home  here,  suited  to  our  mind? 

Constance: 

Perhaps — perhaps — I  do  not  know! 
I  love  these  pines  whose  branches  throw 
Such  veils  of  shadow  to  our  feet, 
And  all  the  air  is  pure  and  sweet, 
As  earth,  I  fancy,  must  have  been 
Ere  Eden  felt  the  taint  of  sin; 
But,  since  decision  rests  with  trie- 
Are  there  not  other  vales  to  see? 

Claude: 

Yes;  here  we  touch  the  western  rim; 
But,  ere  we  turn,  Love,  in  this  dim, 
Uncertain  light— 

Constance: 

One  kiss?     Oh  yes, 
If  one  will  give  you  happiness. 


So  once,  did  Aztec  prince,  his  arms 
Enclose  within,  the  dusky  charms 


52  Wedding  Bells. 

Of  some  young  maiden,  and  his  kiss 

Was  as  a  seal  on  perfect  bliss. 

The  kiss  survives;  but  where  are  they? 

Princess  and  prince  have  passed  away, 

And  lovers  of  a  later  race 

Tread  in  their  footsteps — take  their  place. 


XL 

On  ttye  I^io  Dolores. 

Claude: 

Here  the  river  of  sorrow  runs! 
How  many  moons,  how  many  suns 
Have  risen  and  set  upon  its  flow 
Since  it  was  called  the  stream  of  woe? 
Over  the  torrent,  swift  and  deep, 
Caves  are  set  in  yon  cliffs  so  steep; 
Each  is  the  ruined  dwelling-place 
Of  some  unknown  and  ancient  race, 
When  deeper  river  ran  along 
And  listened  unto  human  song. 


On  the  Rio  Dolores.  53 

Never  a  written  word  survives 

To  tell  the  tale  of  human  lives 

That  toiled  and  suffered,  loved  and  lost, 

Were  on  the  waves  of  pleasure  tossed, 

When  the  Ute  mount  was  but  a  hill, 

And  Mancos,  now  a  little  rill, 

Like  a  broad  river  swept  along 

With  current  deep  and  swift  and  strong, 

Through  Cortez  valley,  till  its  flow 

Found  rest  in  th'  Gulf  of  Mexico. 

Sweetheart,  'tis  theme  for  muse  of  thine; 

Trim  up  the  lamp  and  let  it  shine. 

Constance: 

Last  night  in  dreams  it  came  to  me 
Like  driftwood  from  an  unknown  sea; 
Flotsam  and  jetsam  from  the  past 
On  recollection's  beaches  cast. 
And  even  now  I  still  retain 
An  echo  of  the  mourning  strain; 
A  Sad  Lament  of  joy  and  woe 
From  peoples  vanished  long  ago. 


54  Wedding  Bells. 

A   LAMENT. 

On  the  shores  of  the  Rio  Dolores 

My  ears  catch  a  tremulous  strain; 
A  lament,  as  it  were,  for  past  glories 

Of  river  and  meadow  and  plain. 
But  the  voices  are  mute  in  the  chambers 

That  are  niched  in  the  time-stained  walls, 
And  'tis  only  a  stranger  who  clambers 

For  relics  in  cliff-dwellers'  halls. 

Will  the  chant  of  the  river  of  sorrow 

Ever  be  changed  to  a  song? 
From  the  past  only  legend  we  borrow, 

The  future  to  fate  doth  belong. 
The  grasses  grow  rank  in  the  meadow, 

The  mounds  on  the  hill-top  are  green; 
And  the  passage  of  sunlight  or  shadow 

Falls  over  a  desolate  scene. 

Dolores,  thou  river  of  sorrow, 

Come  out  from  where  shadows  abound; 


On  the  Rio  Dolores.  55 

Though  we  fade  as  the  leaf  fades,  to-mor- 
row, 

To-day  let  the  sunshine  flow  round. 
They  were,  but  they  are  not.     The  ages 

Are  dumb,  and  their  pleasure  or  pain 
Are  scrolled  on  the  long  hidden  pages 

We  ask,  and  we  seek,  for  in  vain. 

Perchance  Love  was  to  them   the  same 

passion 

Humanity  ever  has  known; 
They  were  young,  they  grew  old;  in  their 

fashion 
They  smiled  when  their  pleasure  was 

shown; 
They  were  eager  for  fame  or  for  riches, 

Their  altars  with  gifts  were  aglow — 
But  the  ashes  are  heaped  in  the  niches 
And  their  fires  flickered  out  long  ago. 

Now  the  river  of  sorrow  rolls  onward, 
And  mystery  broods  o'er  the  scene; 


56  Wedding-  Bells. 

Now  the  pine  and  the  pinon  look  sunward 
And  the  banks  of  the  river  are  green. 

And  my  eyes  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  glories 
Springing  out  from  a  long  vanished  day 

When  the  vale  of  the  Rio  Dolores 
With  laughter  of  lovers  was  gay. 

For  the  moon  was  the  same  in  its  glory 

And  the  stars  were  as  tender  and  true 
To  the  lovers  who  whispered  their  story 

With  kisses,  as  lovers  will  do. 
But  the  lips  that  gave  kisses  have  vanished, 

And  the  hearts,  once  with  passion  aflame, 
To  the  dust  of  the  ages  are  banished, 

Leaving  only  a  shadowy  name. 

Claude: 

Ah  yes!     But  in  the  years  to  come 
These  vales  may  be  no  longer  dumb, 
But  echo  with  the  song  that  slips 
In  joyous  cadence  from  the  lips 
Of  young  or  old,  whose  footsteps  stray 
Adown  this  pleasant  valley  way. 


Rio  de  Las  Animas  Perdidas.        57 

Constance: 

Warm  breezes  blow  against  my  mouth — 
Fresh  from  the  sunny,  amorous  south; 
Suggesting  roses  white  and  red 
And  berries  hid  in  leafy  bed. 
One  scarce  would  think  the  flowing  stream 
Suggested  such  a  sorrowing  theme; 
As  clouds  the  sun  will  sometimes  hide, 
So  sadness  waits  at  pleasure's  side. 
Come,  Love,  the  daylight  fades  away; 
We'll  talk  of  this  some  other  day. 


XII. 
l^io  de  bas  ^Animas  Perdidas. 

Who  nature  loves  should  surely  pass 
Up  the  silvery  Animas; 
At  first,  a  valley  broad  and  green, 
Arrayed  in  Nature's  fairest  sheen, 
With  meadow  and  with  orchard  land, 
While  overhead  gaunt  ledges  stand 


58  Wedding  Bells. 

Where  pinon,  pine  and  quaking  asp 
Their  interlacing  branches  clasp. 
A  pleasant  day  at  Trimble  Springs 
Can  well  be  spent;  the  hours  with  wings 
Seem  all  endowed,  so  swift  they  fly 
Under  the  San  Juan's  sunny  sky. 
The  fretful  river  onward  speeds 
From  snow-crowned  peaks  to  verdant 

meads, 

But  narrows,  in  its  winding  way 
As  up  the  canon,  old  and  gray, 
Its  shifting  lines  of  silver  run; 
Now  shining  in  the  summer  sun, 
And  now  within  the  gorge's  deeps, 
A  thousand  feet  below  it  sweeps. 
Far  up  in  air  the  fleecy  clouds 
In  cumulus,  aerial  crowds 
Are  flecked  against  the  azure  arc 
And  hang  like  veils  o'er  Baker's  Park. 
Oh,  stream  of  splendor,  is  it  true 
The  sad,  sad  tale  that's  told  of  you? 


Rio  de  Las  Animas  Perdidas.       59 

Your  very  name  a  story  tells 

Suggestive  of  funereal  knells; 

Of  home  and  love  forever  lost — 

Of  souls  upon  the  river  tossed; 

Lost  souls  who,  where  these  waters  wind, 

Oblivion  forever  find! . 

What  is  there  in  the  current  clear 

That  makes  such  transformation  here? 

What  is  the  story  of  past  years — 

A  story  only  told  with  tears? 

The  River  of  Lost  Souls!     Ah  me! 

That  there  should  such  a  river  be. 

Said  Constance:     "In  a  volume  old 

The  legend  of  the  stream  is  told. 

Two  angels  with  the  Wheel  of  Fate 

Once  in  this  valley  dwelt;  the  gate 

Of  entrance  to  their  weird  abode 

Was  where  the  shining  river  flowed, 

And  open  unto  all  who  came 

Their  future  fate  t£know;  if  fame 

Or  wealth  or  love  or  high  renown 


60  Wedding  Bells. 

Were  to  be  theirs,  or  if  the  frown 
Of  fortune  was  their  fate  to  be — 
Lost  souls  upon  oblivion's  sea." 
"Tell  me  the  tale;  it  may  be  sad," 
Said  Claude;  "  Life's  hours  are  not  all 

glad; 

The  shadow  out  of  sunshine  grows 
And  thorns  are  ever  with  the  rose." 
"True,"  Constance  answered,  "Let  us 

hope 

Our  wedded  life  holds  wider  scope; 
And  that  our  future,  as  it  rolls 
Will  miss  the  River  of  Lost  Souls; 
That  angels  twain  or  wheel  of  fate 
May  not  upon  our  coming  wait." 

THE    WHEEL   OF   LETHE. 

By  Lethe's  wheel 
Two  angels  stood;   one  turned  it  round 

and  round, 
And   one,   blind-folded,   on   its  left  side 

stood; 


Rio  de  Las  Animas  Perdidas.       61 

She  from  it  took  a  slender,  shining  slip, 
Each  time  her  white  and  waxen  hand  fell 

down 
Within  the  wheel;  and  on  these  slips  were 

names 
Of  those  who  sought  their  fate  in  life  to 

know. 
So,  one  by  one  she  took  them  from  the 

wheel, 

The  Lethean  wheel,  forever  turning  round ; 
And  one  by  one  the  other  angel  took 
Them  from   her  lifted  hand,  and  in  the 

stream 
She  cast  them  down;  as  on   its  shining 

breast 
They  fell,  she  cried:     "Oh,  Lethe!  these 

are  they 

Who  fill  the  army  of  Lost  Souls!  fore- 
doomed 

To  wander  evermore  from  peak  to  plain; 
To  listen  to  the  song  the  river  sings 


62  Wedding  Bells. 

And  find  no  pleasure  in  it — only  pain 
And  agony  of  grief !     The  sun  may  shine, 
The   moon   its   penciled   radiance   round 

them  throw, 
The  stars,  serene  and  calm,  look  pitying 

down, 

But  nevermore  as  long  as  river  rolls 
Or  seasons  come  and  go  shall  they  return; 
They  are  lost  souls  forever,  ever  more. 

And  oh! 
How   many  flitted   through   the   shadow 

there; 
What   countless  myriads   sought   rest   in 

vain; 
Eftsoons  as  on  the  river's  breast   their 

names 
Were  dropped,  a  wailing  sound   of  woe 

was  heard; 

The  pine  trees  in  the  valley  caught  it  up 
And  carried  it  to  pines  upon  the  hills; 


Rio  de  Las  Animas  Perdidas.       63 

The   wind,   the   wanton   wind,  the   story 

heard 

And  bore  it  upward,  to  the  bending  stars; 
And  earthly  sorrow  thus  found  entrance 

way 
To  court  of  Heaven;  and  pitying  angels 

said 
To  Him  who  sitteth  on  the  Great  White 

Throne: 
"Oh  stay  our  sisters'  hands,  or  bid  them 

show 

The  way  lost  souls  may  enter  Paradise; 
Lost  souls  that  now,  upon  this  stream, 
Are  doomed  forevermore  to  come  and  go." 

And  then 
The    angel,   Mercy,  clasping    her    white 

hands 
Bent    low    before   the  pearl   and  jasper 

throne 
And  said:     "Send  me  to  stay  the  turning 

wheel 


64  Wedding  Bells. 

And  bring  our  sisters  back  to  their  abode." 
Then   He  whose   name   is   Love,  looked 

pitying  down 
And  bade  her  go.     Swift  as  the  lightning's 

flash 
She  coursed  the  space  between  the  stars 

and  earth 
And  cried:     "Through  Love  the  curse  is 

now  removed; 

The  way  is  open  and  the  path  is  plain; 
No  more  need  souls  be  lost  who  seek  to 

win 

An  entrance  into  Paradise."     The  wheel 
Of  Lethe  in  the  running  stream  she  cast; 
Then  with  the  angels  twain  arose  in  air 
And  journeyed  to  the  Blessed  Land  above. 

This    is   the  legend,    growing    old    with 

Time — 
The  legend  of  the  River  of  Lost  Souls. 


From  Silver  ton  to  Cimarron.         65 

XIII. 

Prom  SilOerfon  to  Cimarron. 

Two  miles  above  the  ocean's  bed 
Our  travelers  are  kindly  led 
To  Silverton,  that  pleasant  town 
Hemmed  in  by  hills  of  high  renown; 
A  jewel  in  an  emerald  frame, 
And  worthy  of  its  growing  fame. 
Here  nature's  veins  of  silver  turn, 
Her  breasts  with  untold  treasure  burn; 
Which  hands  of  toil,  by  faith  supreme, 
Wrest  from  the  rock  in  royal  stream. 
Earth  long  its  treasure  trove  concealed, 
Till  man,  the  master,  searched  the  field 
And  set  the  silvery  current  free, 
Gift  of  the  hills  and  good  to  see; 
For  wealth,  dispensed  by  liberal  mind, 
A  blessing  is  to  all  mankind. 

From  Silverton,  across  the  hills, 
The  scenery  forever  fills 


66  Wedding  Bells. 

The  soul;  the  grandeur  on  each  hand 

Rivals  the  fame  of  Switzerland; 

The  scenic  splendor  of  the  way, 

The  time,  the  toil,  will  well  repay; 

The  cliffs  profound,  the  rocky  road, 

Leading  to  some  recluse  abode; 

Bear  Falls,  with  sheet  of  water  white, 

Ever  resplendent,  day  and  night, 

All  win  some  words  of  praise  from  those 

Who  cross  these  hilltops  flecked  with 

snows; 

And  Claude  and  Constance,  on  their  way 
Across  the  San  Juan  range  would  stay 
Their  steps,  and  point,  with  out-stretched 

arms, 

To  many  a  scene  of  rugged  charms, 
Until,  just  at  the  close  of  day, 
They  reached  the  streets  of  fair  Ouray. 

Who  sees  Ouray,  by  day  or  night, 
Will  see  a  vision  of  delight; 


From  Silver  ton  to  Cimarron.         67 

And  though  they  roam  from  peak  to  sea, 
Will  keep  in  constant  memory 
Its  caves,  its  springs,  its  canons  old, 
Its  sandstone  cliffs,  like  buttress  bold, 
Standing,  like  wardens  of  a  town, 
Upon  the  threshold  of  renown. 
For  there  will  come  a  time  when  eyes 
Unnumbered  will,  with  rapt  surprise, 
Linger  and  look,  and  linger  still, 
On  Canon  Creek,  by  Cascade  rill, 
Sending  its  lissome  sheet  of  spray 
Like  veils  of  beauty  round  Ouray. 
Here  Claude  and  Constance  linger  long 
And  owned  the  scene  as  worthy  song; 
Song  such  as  flows  from  poet's  pen 
Born  of  the  mountain,  stream  and  glen. 

Now  down  the  Uncompahgre  vale 

They  follow  the  old  Indian  trail; 

Reminder  of  the  savage  host 

Is  seen  at  old  Los  Pinos  post. 

No  more  the  wild  war  whoop  is  heard, 


68  Wedding  Bells. 

No  more  the  heart  with  fear  is  stirred 
In  frontier  cabin,  where  affright 
Came  with  the  coming  of  the  night, 
Lest,  ere  the  stars  gave  place  to  day, 
Some  cherished  form  in  death  should  lay, 
Slain  by  the  cruel  Indian's  hand, 
The  Ishmael  of  the  Western  land. 
Soon  meadow,  garden,  fields  of  grain 
And  cabin  homes  bedeck  the  plain, 
Showing  the  presence  of  a  race 
That,  under  Nature's  bounteous  grace, 
Change  desert  lands  to  bowers  fair, 
Creating  beauty  everywhere. 

Montrose,  "fair  village  of  the  plain," 
Ere  long  is  reached,  and  not  in  vain 
Is  sought  the  comfort  and  the  rest 
Our  travelers  need  to  make  them  blest. 
Then,  toward  the  east  they  turned  their 

way, 

Till  Cerro  Hill  behind  them  lay; 
By  devious  roads  and  winding  track, 


From  Cimarron  to  Gunnison.        69 

Now  forward,  and  now  turning  back, 
They  reach,  just  at  the  set  of  sun, 
The  charming  nook  of  Cimarron. 


XIV. 

Prom  (Jimarror\  fo  (Sunnison. 

A  charming  nook,  a  cool  retreat, 
The  waters  flashing  at  one's  feet; 
The  blue,  blue  arc,  so  far  away, 
The  rounded  hills,  where  young  lambs 

play; 

The  frowning  walls,  that  rise  like  Fate 
Before  Black  Canon's  narrow  gate, 
To  bid  the  traveler  pause  who  would 
Rashly  confront  the  solitude 
That  lies  beyond — a  dark  defile, 
That  scarcely  sees  the  sun's  bright  smile, 
But  evermore  in  shadow  sleeps 
Where  Gunnison's  green  water  sweeps. 
He  who  from  busy  life  would  run, 


70  Wedding  Bells. 

He  who  abode  of  men  would  shun, 
He  who  in  solitude  sublime 
Would  seek  repose  or  hide  his  crime, 
Will  here  find  hiding  place  secure, 
Will  here  find  solitude  made  sure 
As  sun,  that  shines  the  world  upon 
But  hides  his  head  at  Cimarron. 

And  yet,  the  lover,  young  and  old, 

Of  Nature,  with  its  green  and  gold 

And  umber  shades,  will  surely  find 

This  place  an  Eden  to  his  mind. 

And  youth,  when  crowned  with  happy  love, 

In  pleasure's  grove  will  swiftly  move 

And  find  in  such  a  calm  retreat 

An  endless  bloom,  forever  sweet, 

And  fair  to  eyes  that  fondly  look 

Upon  it  as  an  open  book, 

On  which  is  traced,  in  fadeless  lines, 

The  happiness  that  round  them  shines. 

So  Claude  and  Constance  thought  that  day 

They  watched  the  ripples  and  the  spray 


From  Cimarron  to  Gunnison.         71 

Floating  and  flashing  on  the  tide 

Till  in  the  Gunnison  they  glide. 

They  crossed  the  bridge,  they  climbed  the 

path, 

They  faced  the  canon's  frown  and  wrath, 
For  bristling  crags  they  had  no  fear; 
The  rugged  cliffs  that  far  and  near 
Enwrapt  the  scene  in  shadow-land 
They  heeded  not  as,  hand  in  hand, 
They  walked  to  where  the  waters  meet 
At  Currecanti  Needle's  feet. 
Like  some  cathedral  spire  sublime, 
Like  some  huge  monument  of  Time, 
It  stands,  while  on  its  tapering  peak 
The  summer  sun  plays  hide  and  seek, 
Peeping  behind  its  walls  of  stone 
To  watch  the  shadows  it  has  thrown. 
A  thread  of  foam  at  Crystal  Falls 
Drops  down  to  smooth  its  shelving  walls, 
And  seeks  the  running  river's  breast 
As  a  child  might,  to  find  a  rest 


72  Wedding  Bells. 

Upon  its  mother's  bosom,  warm 
And  white — a  haven  from  the  storm 
That  might  arise  to  cloud  the  sky 
And  sweep  in  threatening  shadows  by; 
They  hear  its  cooing,  murmuring  tones 
As,  slipping  over  sand  and  stones, 
The  crystal  water  disappears 
And  hides  itself  in  other  spheres 
Of  action. 

Constance: 

Dearest,  such  a  spot 
As  this  is  sacred;  is  it  not? 
Our  Honeymoon  has  been,  thus  far, 
One  round  of  pleasure,  naught  to  mar 
Or  cloud  our  pathway  as  we  go 
Through  vales  of  flowers,  o'er  hills  of  snow, 
Through  canons  crowned  with  stately  pine, 
To  garden  lands  of  corn  and  vine. 

Claude: 
Could  life  like  this  forever  be? 


From  Cimarron  to  Gunnison.         73 

Could  we  thus  cross  life's  stormy  sea, 
With  sails  to  favoring  breezes  spread 
Till  to  the  haven  we  were  led, 
What  happy  lot  were  ours!     Each  day 
Some  pleasure  crowns  us  on  our  way; 
And  when  night's  mantle  folds  our  nest 
A  thousand  happy  fancies  rest 
Within  us.     Love  is  love  indeed 
When  equal  to  all  human  need. 

The  canon  widens  as  they  go 
Toward  Tomichi's  crown  of  snow, 
Past  Sapinero's  rock-bound  nest, 
Where,  for  an  hour,  the  lovers  rest, 
Then  onward  speed  till  Gunnison 
And  its  La  Veta  inn  are  won; 
Where  Constance  in  poetic  mood 
Sketched  this  Black  Canon  interlude* 


74  Wedding  Bells. 

BLACK   CANON. 

By  winding  ways 
We  drop  from  mountain  summits  down  to 

vales 
Where  sunshine  lingers  and  yet  shadows 

lurk 
In  deep  defiles,  pine-crowned  and  robed 

in  snow. 

With  motion  swift,  yet  sure,  we  glide  along 
Until  at  Sapinero's  gate  we  stand 
And  pause,  where  cedar,  evergreen  and 

pine 
Commingle,  and  the  landscape  stretches 

out 
To  one  broad  sheet  of  beauty,  while  we 

catch 

Late  and  last  glimpses  of  Tomichi's  dome 
With  its  white,  western  breast  bared  to 

the  sun, 

Its  feet  in  shadow.    Then,  as  we  glide  on, 
We  see  on  one  side  coverlets  of  snow, 


From  Cimarron  to  Gunnison.         75 

And  on  the  other,  bare,  brown  hills  that 

lift 
Their  umber  bosoms  to  embracing  skies. 

Below, 

The  dark,  green  waters  glide  all  foam- 
lashed  down; 
Above,  steep,  age -washed  rocks,  whose 

sides  reveal 

The  secrets  of  uncounted  eons  fled, 
The  jagged  rocks,  scarred,  seamed  and 

cut,  betray 

Unceasing  warfare  with  the  elements, 
And,  closing  in  with  narrower  walls,  now 

give 

Faint  glimpses  only  of  blue  sky  above. 
The  waters  foam  at  Currecanti's  feet, 
Whose  needle  point  is  lifted  up  to  heaven 
Suggestive  of  a  better  land.     Near  by 
The  smiling  waves  dash  madly  down,  as  if 
In  race  with  stream  and  angry  at  defeat. 


76  Wedding  Bells. 

Here  a  huge  stone,  like   lion    couchant 

waits 
To  fret   the  waters  on   their  downward 

way; 
Here,  Crystal  Falls,  its  slender  thread  of 

foam 
Drops  down  from  dizzy  heights  and  gently 

falls 

Into  the  bosom  of  the  parent  wave. 
As  past  the  Cimarron  we  glide,  we  see 
Faint  foot-prints  of  the  winter,  left  behind 
To  lighten  up  the  landscape,  umber-hued 
And  stained   by  chemic   changes  in  the 

rocks- 
White   patches  upon  Nature's  generous 

breast, 
That  nurse  the  grasses  to  their  roots  and 

win 
The  wild-flowers  to  the  warmth  and  bloom 

of  June. 
For  even  here,  dear  Mother  Earth  delights 


From  Cimarron  to  Gunnison.         77 

To  robe  herself ;  as  when,  in  valley  lands, 
She  binds  her  waist  with  dainty  lily  buds 
And  on  her  forehead  wears  a  wreath,  en- 
girt 

With  rainbow  colors   from  the  meadow 
flowers. 

Ere  long 

We  see  the  rock-ribbed  canon  slow  unclose 
As  gates  might  do  that  ope  to  Paradise; 
We  see  the  sloping,  cedar-wooded  hills 
That  clasp  the  sunshine  to  their  rounded 

breasts 
Whereon  the  firstlings  of  the  flock  may 

feed — 

The  lambs  that  gambol  in  the  balmy  air 
While   ravens,   flapping   heavy  plumage, 

float 
Along;  and  in  the  pause  of  moments  we 

can  hear 
The  blackbird's  twitter  and  the  lark's  light 

song, 


78  Wedding  Bells. 

Until  are  reached  the  pleasant  valley  lands 
That  in  the  Uncompahgre  Valley  lie, 
The  valley  of  a   thousand   prosperous 
homes. 


XV. 

qtye  Vale  of 

Up  the  Tomichi's  sparkling  stream 
Our  lovers  go,  as  in  a  dream; 
Winding  among  the  willow  brush, 
The  quiet  broken  by  the  rush 
Of  lowing  kine  through  pastures  sweet, 
Where  juicy  grasses  hide  the  feet 
Of  these  two,  as  rapt  by  the  scene, 
They  move  along  the  meadows  green. 
Near,  and  yet  far,  Tomichi's  crest 
Looks  down  upon  this  rural  nest; 
Its  rounded  bosom,  crowned  with  pine 
And  cedar,  while  the  creeping  vine 
Garlands  the  struggling  underwood, 


The  Vale  of  Tomichi.  79 

Where  the  wild  deer  have  often  stood 
As,  stooping  down  the  crumbling  brink, 
The  waters  of  the  creek  they  drink. 
These  once  were  numberless;  but  now 
The  rifle  ball,  the  bending  bow, 
The  rapid  settlement  of  men, 
Have  decimated  gorge  and  glen, 
And  only  by  some  lucky  chance 
One  sees  them  through  the  woodland 

prance, 

Swifter  than  arrow  to  its  mark, 
To  safe  retreat  in  bosky  park. 
Tomichi's  springs  are  near  at  hand, 
A  sanitarium  for  the  land, 
Whose  waters,  with  rare  virtues  rife, 
Refill  the  sluggish  veins  of  life 
With  vigor  strong  from  blood  renewed, 
Won  from  the  virgin  solitude, 
Where  Nature,  through  her  chemic  art, 
The  healing  beams  of  health  impart. 
Above,  beyond,  the  rocky  hills 


8o  Wedding  Bells. 

Loom  grandly  up.     Their  presence  fills 
The  heart  with  wonder,  awe  and  pride, 
Of  those  who  climb  the  mountain  side 
To  cross  the  pass  through  storm  and  snow 
To  valley  lands  that  lie  below. 
And  now  begins  the  winding  way, 
The  devious  course,  the  long  delay, 
By  which,  o'er  wooded  hills  of  grass, 
The  traveler  reaches  Marshall  Pass. 
What  mighty  peaks  the  distance  crown! 
Their  feet  are  green,  their  bosoms  brown, 
Their    heads    with     spotless    snow    are 

crowned, 

Eternal  silence  reigns  around. 
A  Switzerland  of  peaks  is  here 
Whose  summits  into  azure  rear. 
No  glittering  glaciers  bar  the  way, 
But  frowning  hills  obscure  the  day 
And  danger  lurks  in  spots  untold 
Where  crumbling  ledges  lose  their  hold. 
Now  suddenly  Cimmerian  gloom 


ROYAL  GORGE. 


The  Vale  of  Tomichi.  81 

Descends,  as  if  the  day  of  doom 

Had  fallen;  drifting  clouds  drop  down, 

The  face  of  Nature  wears  a  frown, 

Which  changes  into  tears  of  pain 

Descending  in  slim  ropes  of  rain. 

The  lightning  sends  its  angry  flash 

Across  the  horizon;  the  crash 

Of  thunder  long  and  loud  resounds, 

And  rumbles  to  remotest  bounds 

Of  space;  the  heavy  air  is  rife 

With  peril  from  the  strain  and  strife 

Of  elements  electrified 

And  battling  on  the  mountain  side. 

Under  the  shadow  of  a  rock 
Constance  and  Claude  wait,  till  the  shock 
Of  sudden  shower  has  ceased  its  wrath; 
Then  sunshine  sweeps  the  rain-drenched 

path; 

The  clouds  move  slowly  past  the  ledge 
Where  they  were  drooping  on  its  edge, 
And  lo!  the  earth,  erstwhile  in  tears, 


82  Wedding  Bells. 

Has  shaken  off  its  spasm  of  fears; 
Blue  sky  and  shining  sun  bend  low, 
Wild  roses  in  the  sunshine  glow, 
The  very  daisies  at  their  feet 
Are  by  the  shower  made  more  sweet; 
The  rivulets  that  past  them  run 
Flash  brighter  ripples  to  the  sun, 
As,  swollen  to  a  torrent  deep, 
Through  dark  defiles  they  downward 

sweep. 

They  stand  on  Marshall  Pass,  whose  page 
Reveals  the  round  earth's  hoary  age. 
The  birthplace  of  the  storm  they  see, 
And  stand  close  to  the  mystery 
Of  wondrous  Chronos,  from  whose  throes 
Titanic  battlements  arose, 
When  rocks  high  in  mid  air  were  hurled 
From  th'  furnace  of  the  under  world. 

Now  down  the  Pass  Claude  leads  the  way; 
They  watch  the  shadows  as  they  play 
In  every  dell,  defile  and  nook, 


The  Vale  of  Tomichi.  83 

And  hide  the  purling  Poncha  brook; 

Running  as  if  in  haste  to  rest 

Within  some  river's  ampler  breast. 

Down,  down  descending  slopes  they  go — 

Behind,  the  mountains  crowned  with  snow; 

Beside  them,  precipices  deep, 

Where  darkness  and  where  danger  sleep; 

Before  them  glimpses  brief  but  sweet 

Of  vales  secluded  in  retreat; 

Of  parks  enclosed  in  pine-ridged  hills 

Through  which  meander  laughing  rills; 

Above,  the  sky  in  clouds  arrayed, 

Their  edge  in  rainbow  colors  laid. 

The  plains  of  Poncha  meet  their  eyes; 

In  calm  of  rest  the  village  lies, 

As  if  content  and  earthly  peace 

From  human  ailment  gave  release. 

Ere  long  they  in  Salida  stand— 

The  gateway  to  the  summer-land. 

Resting  upon  the  river's  slopes, 

And  throbbing  with  a  thousand  hopes; 


84  Wedding  Bells. 

With  promise  of  an  honored  name, 
And  looking  out  on  coming  fame. 
Upon  its  brow  may  garlands  wait — 
A  noble  city  of  the  state. 
Its  homes,  its  gardens  and  its  fields, 
With  all  that  loving  Nature  yields 
To  those  who  at  her  temple  kneel 
And  plead  for  human  wealth  and  weal, 
To  fall  in  fullest  measure  down 
And  all  the  passing  seasons  crown. 


XVI. 


An  idle  day  one  could  not  spend 

To  better  profit  than  to  bend 

One's  footsteps  to  the  wild  defile 

Where  Nature  blends  a  frown  and  smile, 

On  granite  walls  and  foaming  stream, 

Where  shadow  and  where  sunshine  gleam, 

And  in  Grand  Canon's  heart  reveal 


The  Royal  Gorge.  85 

The  secrets  Nature  would  conceal. 
A  thousand  years  of  shade  and  sun 
In  Nature's  story  count  as  one; 
And  who  can  in  the  granite  trace 
The  foot-prints  of  the  ancient  race 
That  peopled  hill  and  vale  below 
Before  the  gorge  began  to  grow? 
The  stars,  the  moon,  the  sun,  we  ask — 
The  ancient  landmarks  take  to  task — 
From  rounded  rock  the  secret  seek — 
We  bid  the  hoary  pine  trees  speak — 
We  ask  the  river  as  it  runs 
The  number  of  unnumbered  suns 
That  on  it  shone,  before  the  tide — 
Once  in  its  flowing,  deep  and  wide — 
Down  dwindled  to  the  narrow  bed, 
Cribbed  and  confined,  until  it  sped 
Through  canon  walls  two  thousand  feet 
Below  their  crest.    The  crags  repeat 
The  question.     Echo  takes  the  sound 
And  sends  it  upward  and  around, 


86  Wedding  Bells. 

Then  waits  the  answer — but  in  vain; 
The  mist,  the  snowflake  and  the  rain, 
In  the  Arcana  dim  and  vast, 
Rise,  flash  and  flit  forever  past, 
While  men,  immortal  though  they  be, 
No  wiser  grow.     The  things  they  see, 
Evoked  from  Nature's  solitude, 
Are  scarcely  ever  understood. 
The  waters  flash,  the  waters  flow, 
They  fret  the  rocks  as  on  they  go, 
They  throw  their  spray  upon  the  ledge, 
They  purl  along  the  pebbled  edge 
Where  never  flower  is  seen  or  bird 
Is  in  the  awful  silence  heard. 
This  gulf  of  air,  in  somber  robes, 
Is  the  eighth  wonder  of  the  globe. 

Upon  the  bridge  the  wedded  pair 
Stand  as  if  poised  in  upper  air; 
The  river  runs  beneath  their  feet, 
Above,  the  cleft  rocks  almost  meet, 


The  Royal  Gorge.  87 

Hiding  from  view  the  rift  of  light 
That  struggles  down  to  meet  the  sight. 
Man  supplements  the  work  of  Time 
Till  Nature  is  indeed  sublime. 

Constance: 

Hear  you  the  beating  of  my  heart? 
At  every  little  sound  I  start! 
My  soul  with  wonder  and  with  awe 
Is  filled.     I  hear  the  river's  roar 
And,  dizzy  with  the  light  and  sound, 
I  fain  would  stand  on  firmer  ground. 

Claude: 

Nay,  Love,  cheer  up;  the  shadows  lie 
Upon  us;  but  above,  the  sky 
Shines  brighter  for  these  darkened  slopes 
That  seem  like  shrines  of  buried  hopes. 

Constance: 

I  hear  the  murmur  of  the  stream. 
It  tells  us  this  is  not  a  dream; 
That  but  a  little  space  away 


88  Wedding  Bells. 

It  flashes  in  the  noontide's  ray. 
It  bids  us  follow  where  it  goes 
To  kiss  the  lily  and  the  rose, 
To  ripple  where  the  tree,  the  vine, 
In  Canon's  perfumed  gardens  shine. 

Claude: 

And  if,  dear  Love  and  bride  of  mine, 
The  kiss  it  gives  be  sweet  as  thine, 
It  well  may  seek  to  swiftly  speed 
From  somber  gorge  to  smiling  mead. 
And  if — look  up — sweetheart — such  slips 
Were  never  meant 

Constance: 

Ah,  Claude!  my  lips 
Are  tremulous  and  white,  I  know, 
With  whiteness  of  the  stainless  snow. 
But  press  them  once  and  not  in  vain 
Will  they  their  roseate  hue  regain. 
Love's  kiss  their  color  will  restore, 
And  love  is  love,  forevermore. 


Canons  Orchard  Lands.  89 

XVII. 
Canon's  ©regard  bands. 

The  sandstone  walls  of  Canon  stand 

Like  gateways  into  fairy-land; 

The  valley  opens  wide  its  arms 

And  shows  the  world  a  thousand  charms 

Of  landscape;  verdant  hills  bend  low, 

The  meadows  meet  the  river's  flow, 

The  birds  attune  melodious  throats 

And  sing  of  love  in  cooing  notes, 

And  round  "Gate  City's"  home-like  walls 

A  sense  of  perfect  comfort  falls. 

He  who  these  fruitful  lands  would  see 

Should  walk  abroad;  on  plain  and  lea 

The  apple  trees,  in  fair  array, 

Bespeak  Pomona's  gentle  sway. 

The  vista  stretches  on  each  side, 

Revealing  orchards  far  and  wide 

Whose  blossom-time  in  early  spring 

Give  odors  like  the  airs  that  wing 

Their  way  across  Arabian  isles, 


go  Wedding  Bells. 

Where  Nature,  robed  in  roses,  smiles. 

And  here,  a  later  time  shall  come 

When  the  rich  fruitage  round  each  home 

Shall  ripen  red;  and  harvest  song 

Be  heard  the  Fruitmere  lands  among. 

Nor  this  alone;  for  from  the  vine 

Will  purple  clusters  hang,  in  sign 

That  here  the  vineyard  tribute  yields 

To  supplement  the  grain,  whose  fields 

Are  ripening,  thus  giving  food 

And  drink  to  all  the  multitude. 

The  valley  widens  as  it  goes 

And  adds  new  charms  of  scene  to  those 

It  holds  so  closely  to  its  heart, 

Where  canon  and  where  river  part; 

Until,  where  Canon  City  stands 

And   wooes    the   world    with    fruit-filled 

hands, 

It  seems  as  if  no  fairer  spot 
On  earth  could  come;  where,  care  forgot 
And  sorrow  banished,  life  would  glide 


Canons  Orchard  Lands.  91 

On  tides  of  bliss,  beatified. 
The  river  whispered,  as  it  ran, 
Its  messages  of  peace  to  man. 
"I  bear,"  it  said,  "upon  my  tide 
The  shining  waters;  as  they  glide 
To  grain  fields  and  to  orchard  lands, 
Distributed  by  busy  hands, 
They  are  as  pearls  the  Princess  slips, 
In  legend  old,  from  rosebud  lips. 
They  touch  the  earth  and  from  it  grows 
The  peach,  the  almond  and  the  rose; 
The  tree  uplifts  its  branches  tall; 
The  vine  hangs  on  the  sunny  wall; 
The  meadow  its  alfalfa  yields; 
Plain  lands  are  changed  to  barley  fields; 
And,  as  in  days  of  Babylon, 
The  earth,  by  water  kissed,  and  sun, 
Replies,  with  all  its  precious  store- 
God's  gift  to  man,  forevermore." 

Constance  and  Claude,  in  happy  talk, 
Beside  the  whispering  river  walk; 


92  Wedding  Bells. 

It  almost  seems  as  if  they'd  found, 
The  chosen  spot,  the  favored  ground, 
Where,  for  the  years  which  are  to  come, 
They  might  build  up  their  earthly  home. 
The  vale  is  one  enriched  with  flowers 
To  beautify  life's  happy  hours; 
And,  with  the  warmth  of  sun  and  sky 
On  orchard  lands  and  vineyards  nigh, 
The  languorous  airs  of  summer  woo 
The  soul  with  pleasures  Eden  knew, 
Before  the  sword  of  anger  swept 
Across  its  gate,  or  angels  wept 
To  see  the  sinning  human  pair 
Cast  out,  life's  bitter  lot  to  share; 
From  bliss  of  Paradise  depart 
With  scarce  a  hope  to  cheer  the  heart. 

Claude: 
Is  this  the  end? 

Constance: 

Nay,  Love;  you  know 


Buena  Vista  Hot  Springs.  93 

Across  the  hills  we  still  must  go; 
Beyond  the  pines  whose  shadows  toss 
Beneath  the  Mount  of  th'  Holy  Cross! 
There  still  are  scenes  as  bright  and  clear 
As  mirror  this  star  hemisphere 
With  beauty.     And  still  many  ways 
In  which  to  pass  these  honeyed  days. 

Claude: 

Then  let  us  turn  our  faces  west, 
Follow  the  path  that  seemeth  best, 
And  take  such  comfort  as  we  may; 
Sweet  Constance,  kiss  and  come  away. 


XVIII. 

Buena  Vista  ftat  §f)Hn|s. 

Again  toward  the  hill-crowned  west 
The  lovers  turn.     They  see  the  crest 
Of  scores  of  mountains  rise  in  air — 
Sangre  de  Christo's  range  is  bare 
Of  snow,  save  isolated  peaks 


94  Wedding  Bells. 

Whose  brow  eternal  winter  speaks; 

Though  flowers  may  blossom  at  their  feet, 

And  winds  be  full  of  odors  sweet, 

Upon  their  heads  forever  show 

The  coronals  of  stainless  snow. 

Salida's  skirts  are  touched,  and  then 

Their  way  is  up  the  hills  again; 

They  see  Buena  Vista's  light 

Shine  faintly  through  the  summer  night; 

The  valley  of  the  Cottonwood 

Lies  draped  in  sylvan  solitude 

Until  the  Indian  Springs  arise 

In  sudden  but  in  glad  surprise, 

Set  underneath  the  friendly  breast 

Of  hills  crowned  with  eternal  rest. 

Constance: 

Look,  Claude!  the  moon  above  the  hills 
Is  rising;  how  its  shining  fills 
The  sky  with  radiance,  while  the  world 
In  sheen  of  silvery  rays  is  furled. 


Buena  Vista  Hot  Springs.  95 

Touched  by  the  moonlight,  in  my  thought 

A  legend  runs — a  fancy,  caught 

In  idle  hours,  long  time  ago, 

About  the  moon;  one  side  aglow 

With  whiteness,  turned  toward  our  world; 

The  other,  in  black  darkness  furled, 

Forevermore  in  shadow  thrown 

As  if  forever  to  atone. 

One  side  a  realm  of  bliss,  that  seems 

Like  Paradise  as  seen  in  dreams; 

While  on  the  other,  hither  shore 

Lies  Eden,  lost,  forevermore. 

Claude: 

Tell  me  the  story.     Could  we  stand 
One  moment  in  that  moon-lit  land, 
What  visions  strange  would  meet  our  eyes! 
What  glories  on  our  sight  would  rise! 
The  music  of  celestial  spheres 
Would  fall  in  sweetness  on  our  ears! 
And,  earth  forgetting,  by  the  earth 


96  Wedding  Bells. 

Forgotten,  in  the  newer  birth 

Our  souls  would  in  the  moonshine  rest, 

Forever  and  forever  blest. 

THE    MOON    MYTH. 

An  angel  led  me  to  the  Moon's  bright  side, 

The  side  where  darkness  never  has  been 
known; 

And  where  eternal  brightness  dwells  and 
sends 

Its  radiant  earth-shine  through  the  vales 
and  dells. 

Beside  the  sun,  the  stars,  in  ebon  sky, 

Looked  down  upon  the  mountains,  on 
whose  top 

Unceasing  splendor  shone;  flower-bosom- 
ed vales 

Around  us  lay,  and  far  and  near  we  saw 

Such  glory  as  is  never  known  on  earth. 

Then,  as  I  looked  around,  I  thought  of 
hearts 


Buena  Vista  Hot  Springs.  97 

Borne  down  by  burdens,  weary  of  their 

load 

That  hither  look,  and  in  their  helplessness 
Have  wished  for  happiness  in  some  abode 
Like  this,  and  in  the  silence  of  the  night 
Have  prayed  for  passage  hither.     Happy 

they 

Who  these  clear,  quiet  waters  walk  be- 
side; 
Who  in  these  vernal  meadows  find  their 

rest. 

We  wonder  not  the  children  of  the  East 
Reared  lofty  temples  to  Diana's  name, 
Until  all  Asia  and  the  Eastern  world 
Bent  low  and  in  the  moonlight  cold  and 

chaste, 
Worshipped   the   Goddess  of  the  Night, 

until 

Through  all  the  darkened  age  their  hom- 
age ran 
And  echoes  in  eternal  changes  swept 


98  Wedding  Bells. 

Above  humanity's  wreck-burdened  sea. 
As  thus  I  mused,  the  angel's  low  voice  fell 
Upon  my  ear,  and  listening,  I  heard 
This  wondrous  tale: 

Here  in  this  valley  lie 
All  treasures  lost  on  earth.     Here  every 

vow 

Men  make,  a  record  hath;  and  every  sigh 
To  which  the  sorrowing  heart  gives  birth, 

is  here 

Held  sacred.     Here,  all  reputations  lost 
By  those  who,  led  by  th'  Will  o'  Wisp  of 

fame 

Or  lust  of  gold,  the  Rubicon  have  crossed 
And   left  behind   them   honor,  love   and 

truth; 

And  here,  clustered  in  an  inglorious  group, 
Are  the  results  of  earthly  vice  and  crime; 
The  ghosts  of  error,  ignorance  and  hate, 
And  all  the  children  of  the  Goddess  Sin. 


Buena  Vista  Hot  Springs.  99 

Here  are  the  promises  men  make  in  youth 
And  in  their  later  years  forget  to  keep. 
These  gather  in  the  after  time,  to  mock 
The  fears  that  cluster  round  the  coward's 

heart 

Who  sees  in  all  these  unrepented  years 
The  arrows  of  remorse,  arrayed  against 
The  entrance  into  Paradise;  each  poison- 
ed shaft 
Held  in  an  archer's  hand,  whose  aim  is 

true. 

All  these  are  here,  forgotten  for  the  time, 
But  ready  at  the  waving  of  the  wand 
Of  Conscience  to  leap  up  and  fly  to  mark 
As  to  Achilles'  heel  did  foeman's  lance. 
Here  all  the  hopes  that  send  across  life's 

wave 
Their  rainbow  rays,  lie  wrecked,  as  on  the 

rocks 

Of  sad  experience  they  struck  and  sunk 
With  all  love's  treasured  idols,  one  by  one. 


ioo  Wedding  Bells. 

By  force  of  circumstance,  by  fell  design, 
By  all  the  common  accidents  of  time 
Each  image  crumbled,  and  no  record  left 
Save  such  sad  In  Memoriam  as  makes 
The  tale  more  sad.     And  here  are  gath- 
ered pearls 

Such  as  we  pass  and  pick  not  up,  that  line 
The  path  we  tread  with  blinded  eyes;  the 

flowers 

Of  faith  and  charity  that  bud  and  bloom 
Along  the  road  to  Virtue's  fair  abode; 
All  these  unheeded  and  unseen  are  here  — 
But   why  the  theme   pursue?      Here  all 

things  lost 
On  earth  are  found.     Even  the  unremem- 

bered  dream, 

The  scarce  heard  or  forgotten  word; 
And  in  these  valleys  of  the  moon  they  find 
Record  against  the  swiftly-coming  hour 
When  all  the  secrets  of  the  universe 
Shall  stand  revealed. 


Buena  Vista  Hot  Springs.          101 

Claude: 

And  if,  my  Love,  the  myth  were  true, 
And  in  the  shining  moon,  we  knew 
Our  vows  of  love  were  kept,  to  wait 
Far-off  but  certain  day  of  fate, 
When  they  would  rise  as  witnesses 
To  all  that  was  and  all  that  is 
To  be — what  then?     Our  page  of  life, 
With  pen  of  love  and  not  of  strife, 
Is  to  be  written,  fair  and  clear, 
For  every  day  of  every  year. 

Constance: 

Hold  me,  Love,  closer  to  your  breast; 
On  lips  of  mine,  let  your  lips  rest; 
And  by  this  seal  and  by  this  sign 
Seal  me  in  life  or  death  as  thine. 

Oh  Love!  what  miracle  is  this? 
What  potent  power  is  in  thy  kiss 
That  blends  our  souls  to  seem  as  one 


IO2  Wedding  Bells. 

As  when  two  streams  together  run? 
To  watch  one  moon,  to  seek  one  sea, 
Twin-souled  to  all  eternity. 


XIX. 

fp\A)in  bakes. 

Above  the  sea,  ten  thousand  feet, 
The  mountains  and  the  waters  meet; 
So  near  to  Heaven  their  surface  lies 
They  seem  to  touch  the  azure  skies; 
That  lower  bend,  as  if  to  reach 
The  mirrored  stars  that  shine  in  each; 
Reflecting  back  their  lucent  ray 
In  brighter  lines,  as  dips  the  day 
Behind  Mount  Elbert's  furrowed  form, 
Seared  by  its  centuries  of  storm. 
Oh  lakes  of  waters,  fitly  named, 
Between  the  sky  and  mountain  framed; 
Twin  Lakes,  upon  whose  quiet  breast 
Respite  is  found  from  life's  unrest. 


Twin  Lakes.  103 

The  boatman  plies  his  willing  oar, 

The  boat  glides  gently  from  the  shore, 

And  on  the  undulating  spray 

We  float  and  dream  the  hours  away; 

The  summer  hours,  that  swiftly  pass 

As  vapors  flit  across  the  glass. 

La  Plata's  mountain,  stern  and  bold; 

Twin  Peaks,  like  brothers,  calm  and  cold; 

Lake  Mountain  and  Mount  Sheridan, 

All  are  as  warders,  bidding  man 

Respect  the  world-old  virgin  grace, 

And  keep  unstained  fair  Nature's  face. 

The  forests,  with  their  wealth  of  pine, 

In  boweries  of  balm  recline; 

And  all  the  charm  that  Nature  wears 

In  solitude  like  this,  he  shares 

Who,  to  enjoy  it  at  its  best, 

Comes  to  this  quiet  spot  to  rest. 

Below,  the  toil  and  tire  of  earth, 

Its  wail  of  grief,  its  song  of  mirth; 

Its  memories  born  of  happier  hours; 


IO4  Wedding-  Bells. 

Its  roses,  fading  in  June's  bowers; 
Its  thorns,  to  beating  bosom  pressed; 
Its  sorrows,  throned  in  throbbing  breast; 
And  all  the  wine  of  human  woe 
Pressed  from  the  grapes  of  pain  below. 
Above,  the  silence  and  the  stars, 
And  visions,  through  celestial  bars 
Of  the  Beulah  land  that  waits 
Beyond  the  pearl  and  jasper  gates — 
The  gates  that  open  at  a  sign 
From  the  white  throne  of  Love  divine, 
And  lets  the  soul,  when  shrived  from  sin, 
The  soul  from  earth-land,  enter  in, 
To  walk  the  streets  of  shining  gold 
And  sing  the  song  that's  never  old; 
The  one  the  angels  sing  above— 
The  song  of  the  Redeemer's  love. 

Constance: 

How  near  to  Heaven  we  seem  to  be, 
When,  from  such  heights  sublime,  we  see 


Twin  Lakes.  105 

The  starry  depths  of  space  unknown 
Upon  the  lake's  calm  bosom  thrown. 
How  pitiful  our  passions  seem — 
Each  aspiration,  hope  or  dream, 
Which  only  has  an  earthly  goal 
And  cannot  satisfy  the  soul. 

Claude: 

Dear  Love,  the  silence  so  profound 
Resting  upon  the  parks  around 
Impresses  me  with  awe.     I  feel 
Across  my  subdued  senses  steal 
Th'  influence  of  the  stars,  whose  rays 
Have  shone  on  earth  since  Eden's  days 
In  pity  and  in  prayer,  that  men 
Might  enter  Paradise  again. 

Constance: 

And  if  they  do,  'tis  Love  that  waits 
To  lead  them  to  the  swinging  gates 
Where  angel  and  avenging  sword 


io6  Wedding  Bells. 

Work  out  the  mandate  of  the  Lord. 
But  Love  shall  conquer — Love  shall  win 
That  all  who  will  may  enter  in. 


The  shadow  falls  on  peaks  and  lakes; 
The  wind  the  moaning  pine-song  wakes; 
The  Twin  Lakes  waters  to  and  fro 
Upon  their  world-old  mission  go, 
And  night  and  darkness  on  them  fall; 
But  Love  is  Guardian  over  all. 


XX. 

Premonf  Pass. 

"On  Fremont  Pass  at  last  we  stand," 
Said  Claude.     "Brave  leader  of  a  band 
Of  men  as  brave  as  he  and  bold, 
Who  feared  no  danger,  darkness,  cold, 
As,  amid  Nature's  scenes  so  strange, 
He  crossed  the  Rocky  Mountain  Range. 
Pathfinder  of  the  glorious  West, 


Fremont  Pass.  107 

Whose  tireless  feet  still  onward  prest 
Through  canon  wild,  o'er  mountain  steep, 
Where  eagles  from  their  eyrie  sweep, 
And,  soaring  upward  to  the  sky, 
They  face  the  sun  with  fearless  eye. 
A  hero  he,  who  thus  revealed 
The  wealth  Sierra's  heart  concealed. 
Of  hills  where  silver,  jewels,  gold 
Were  hidden;  and  of  vales  where  rolled 
The  waters  'neath  whose  sparkling  flow 
Pactolean  sands  were  hid  below. 
His  name  will  shine  on  history's  page 
The  hero  of  this  later  age." 
"But  did  he  for  his  labors  win," 
Said  Constance,  "such  reward,  as  in 
The  breasts  of  grateful  people  rise? 
Where  eager  hands  and  sparkling  eyes 
Heap  love  and  honor,  wealth  and  fame, 
Upon  the  hero's  world-known  name? 
Nay,  he  who  to  his  native  land 
An  empire  gave;  whose  venturous  hand 


io8  Wedding  Bells. 

Opened  the  Gateway  of  the  West 
To  El  Dorado's  golden  breast 
And  to  the  brotherhood  of  States 
Gave  added  strength,  his  name  awaits 
The  justice  of  a  later  day 
To  crown  his  brow  with  fadeless  bay. 
Colombo  on  Carribean  seas, 
Fremont  on  ranges  such  as  these, 
Give  continents  and  states  to  men 
And  sounding  lyre  and  minstrel's  pen 
Are  silent — to  the  Nation's  shame; 
And  such,  alas!  is  human  fame." 


Below,  the  valley  objects  fade; 
The  charms  of  rivulet  and  glade 
Are  lost  to  vision,  as  the  clouds, 
Like  shadows  or  aerial  shrouds, 
Float   round  the  mount  in  vaporous 

streams 

Through  which  the  sun  sends  shining 
beams. 


Mount  of  the  Holy  Cross.          109 

Oh  vision  grand!     Oh  light  sublime! 
Seldom  in  story  or  in  rhyme 
Such  splendid  glories  cluster  round 
And  crown  the  consecrated  ground. 


XXI. 

Mount  of  tfye  ffoty  (jross. 

On  consecrated  ground;  for  lo 

On  yonder  heights  a  Cross  of  Snow 

Is  lifted  in  the  air,  a  sign 

And  symbol,  graved  on  Nature's  shrine; 

And,  since  the  world  itself  began, 

Telling  its  story  unto  man. 

To  Man,  who  floats  upon  Time's  wave, 

Whose  moving  bosom  is  a  grave; 

Whose  life  is  said  to  be  a  span 

Ending  as  soon  as  it  began. 

The  Mountain  of  the  Holy  Cross 

Gives  Heavenly  gain  for  Earthly  loss 

To  all  who  bend  their  willing  feet 


no  Wedding  Bells. 

To  where  the  promise,  so  complete, 
Is  written!     Unto  all  who  will, 
Beneath  the  Cross  climb  Calvary's  Hill. 
When  was  it  set  in  Nature's  breast? 
Who  knoweth  ?     Centuries  have  prest 
On  centuries  moving  swiftly  by 
Since  first  it  kissed  the  air  and  sky. 
Perchance  before  the  moon  grew  cold — 
Perchance  before  the  stars  grew  old — 
Ere  Rameses  reigned  in  kingly  state — 
Ere  Christ,  beneath  the  Jewish  hate, 
Moved  with  the  Cross  upon  his  breast 
To  the  Golgothan  place  of  rest, 
And  Nature,  at  the  cruel  act, 
Awoke  the  dead  to  seal  the  fact 
To  all  the  coming  centuries; 
To  Saint,  upon  his  bended  knees, 
Or  Pagans,  as  their  gifts  they  toss, 
Before  the  Altar  and  the  Cross. 
Who  knoweth?    On  this  Cross  of  Snow 
The  shadow  of  the  clouds  below 


Mount  of  the  Holy  Cross.          1 1 1 

Can  never  fall.    The  wind  may  sweep 

And  drift  through  gorges  wild  and  deep, 

But  far  above,  the  Mountain's  breast 

Is  crowned  with  an  eternal  rest; 

And  bold  against  the  sapphire  arc 

Above  it,  God's  undying  mark 

Is  set;  but  not  in  anger.     No, 

The  story  of  the  Cross  of  Snow 

Is  one  of  Love — the  love  of  One 

Who  on  the  Cross  Salvation  won 

For  man — a  sinful,  erring  race, 

Inhabiting  Earth's  dwelling  place. 

This  emblem  of  the  Christian's  faith 

Forever  and  forever  saith 

As  once  to  Constantine  it  said: 

By  this,  man  is  to  victory  led. 

The  victory  that  conquers  sin, 

And  over  Death  itself  shall  win 

('Tis  written  so  on  angel  scroll) 

In  final  warfare  for  the  soul. 

Thus,  from  the  summit  of  Fremont, 


1 1 2  Wedding  Bells. 

Constance  and  Claude  the  Cross  confront; 
The  Holy  Cross,  the  seal  and  sign 
Of  Love  unending  and  divine. 

Constance  and  Claude: 

(On  bent  knees  facing  the  Mount  of  the  Holy  Cross.) 

Oh  what  are  we,  if  from  this  slope 
Thy  hand  withdraws  this  sign  of  Hope? 
And  what  our  chance  of  future  bliss 
When  life  is  ended,  save  for  this? 
Father  of  All,  Whose  name  is  Love, 
Look  down  upon  us  from  above 
As  here  we  kneel;  we  are  so  weak, 
Thy  guidance  and  Thy  strength  we  seek. 
We  are  but  human  and  we  know 
Our  thoughts  to  sinful  pleasures  flow; 
On  waves  of  doubt  we  float  and  toss 
Till  anchored  to  the  Holy  Cross. 


With  souls  refreshed  the  lovers  rise. 
Hands   clasp — lips   meet — and  from    the 
skies 


Glenwood  Springs.  113 

Floats  down  the  song  they  sing  in  Heaven 
When  souls  are  of  their  sins  forgiven. 


XXII. 


At  Glenwood  Springs  our  lovers  rest: 
A  park  of  beauty,  whose  behest 
Would  serve  to  fill  a  poet's  dreams; 
Begirt  by  mountains,  edged  by  streams; 
The  Roaring  Forks,  the  rippling  Grand, 
The  noblest  river  in  the  land, 
Whose  swelling  tides  of  water  flow 
Through  dells  where  the  wild  roses  blow; 
Past  crags  and  peaks  of  old  renown; 
Through  valley  gemmed  by  thriving  town  ; 
Past  hamlet  where  fair  orchards  grow 
In  sight  of  mesas  crowned  with  snow; 
And  then  through  canons  wild  and  grim, 
And  in  defiles  as  dense  and  dim 
As  Nature  ever  fashioned,  runs 
Till,  under  California's  suns, 


H4  Wedding  Bells. 

The  wavelet  in  the  North  Park  born, 
Sweeps  southward  to  the  Cape  of  Horn. 
A  noble  river,  in  a  land 
Where  rivers  fill  the  farmer's  hand 
With  harvestage  of  golden  grain 
Where'er  it  kisses  park  or  plain. 

But  stay!  our  muse  at  present  sings 
The  praise  of  pretty  Glenwood  Springs, 
Where  Nature  shows  a  thousand  charms 
To  woo  her  lovers  to  her  arms. 
She  bids  the  sick  come  here  for  health; 
She  bids  the  poor  come  here  for  wealth; 
She  bids  the  weak  come  here  to  find 
A  balm  for  body  and  for  mind; 
Her  sulphurous  vapors  upward  go, 
And  healing  follows  where  they  flow. 
She  bids  the  weary  come  and  rest; 
She  calls  the  hunter  to  the  crest 
Of  hills  that  round  her  rise,  to  find 
The  game  that  through  the  pine  trees 
wind; 


Glenwood  Springs.  115 

And  all  around  the  rolling  year 
She  offers  comfort,  calm  and  cheer; 
While  health  and  healing  furl  their  wings 
About  the  town  of  Glenwood  Springs. 

So  Claude  and  Constance,  on  their  way 

To  other  vales  beyond;  must  stay 

To  drink  the  water,  breathe  the  air, 

And  Nature's  wealth  of  beauty  share. 

No  ills  of  body  to  be  cured, 

No  grief-touched  days  to  be  endured; 

Only  to  linger  by  the  way, 

And  be  as  happy  as  they  may; 

So  full  of  bliss,  they  only  know 

Earth  would  be  Heaven,  could  they  but  go 

Forever  thus,  hand  clasped  in  hand, 

In  love  and  duty  through  the  land. 

A  Paradise  on  Earth?    Ah,  well! 
The  lovers  think  so;  'tis  the  spell 
That  Isaac  and  Rebecca  knew— 
Old  as  the  world,  yet  ever  new. 


ii6  Wedding  Bells. 

On  Philae's  Isle,  by  the  Nile's  stream, 

The  maids  of  Egypt  dreamed  the  dream, 

And,  till  the  earth  shall,  like  a  scroll, 

Into  oblivion's  spaces  roll, 

There  will  be  lovers,  honeymoons 

And  idyls  in  uncounted  Junes; 

And  know  no  world  but  that  which  lies 

Within  the  realm  of  lovers'  eyes. 

Dear  reader,  we  were  young,  you  know, 
All  in  the  years  of  long  ago! 
And  there  were  moonlights,  kisses,  looks, 
And  cosy  chats  in  sylvan  nooks, 
And  marriage  ring  and  wedding  bells, 
And  all  the  bliss  their  ringing  tells. 
Once — once — for  us;  as  now  to  these 
Young  lovers  who,  like  roving  bees, 
Flit  on  from  flower  to  flower,  to  find 
The  honey  fitted  to  their  mind. 
Because  our  day  of  bliss  has  been, 
Shall  we  begrudge  the  bliss  they're  in? 
Nay,  rather  let  our  wishes  blend 


Valley  of  Grand  River.  1 1 7 

That  bliss  go  with  them  to  the  end. 

So  in  love's  daliance  pass  away 
The  bright  hours  of  the  summer  day. 
Constance  receives  on  every  side 
The  honors  given  to  a  bride; 
Blushes  in  love's  unconscious  pride 
When  Claude  is  walking  by  her  side; 
And  happiness  around  them  flings 
Her  roseate  robes  at  Glen  wood  Springs. 


XXIII. 

of  grand 

Now  down  the  crankled  road  they  sped 
By  the  Grand  River's  winding,  led 
Through  fertile  parks  and  blooming  vales, 
Through  gorges  where  the  sunshine  pales, 
Through   glens  hedged  in  with  odorous 

pine, 

Home  of  the  orchard  and  the  vine, 
Till  in  the  Valley  of  the  Grand 


ii8  Wedding  Bells. 

In  wonder  and  surprise  they  stand. 
Here  a  broad  river,  dangerous,  deep, 
Whose  waves  in  rapid  current  sweep, 
Flows  by  beside  the  Linn  trees  old, 
Whose  trunks  a  century's  life  enfold. 
Fair  Fruita  in  the  sunshine  lies, 
The  fairest  village  'neath  the  skies; 
Broad  sweep  of  fertile  land  around, 
Where  prosperous  farmer  homes  abound; 
Home  of  the  almond,  apple,  peach, 
And  vines,  whose  purple  clusters  teach 
That  bounteous  Nature  offers  here 
A  generous  summer  with  each  year. 
Far-off  Grand  Mesa  on  it  frowns; 
The  stainless  snow  its  summit  crowns; 
Its  breast  with  crags  and  gulches  scarred, 
With  countless  streams  of  silver  starred; 
Like  stately  warder  it  looks  down 
Upon  Grand  Junction's  thriving  town. 
Mount  Garfield  in  the  distance  glows 
At  sunset  like  a  crimson  rose; 


Valley  of  Grand  River.  1 1 9 

While  far-off  Washington  gleams  bright, 
Touched  by  the  roseate  sunset's  light. 
Beyond,  the  Roan  Cliffs  in  long  sweep 
Of  peaks  serrated,  westward  creep, 
Till,  on  the  waves  of  distance  tossed, 
They  in  the  Wahsatch  range  are  lost; 
At  eventide  they  catch  the  ray- 
Given  in  farewell  to  the  day- 
Sent  by  the  sun;  and  poet's  pen 
Or  painter's  pencil  fail  them  when 
The  glory  of  the  view  they  write, 
Or  seek  to  paint  in  colors  bright. 

Constance  and  Claude  in  rapture  gaze 
Upon  the  drifts  of  cloud,  ablaze 
With  color,  full  of  constant  change; 
A  sense  of  languor,  sweet  and  strange, 
Comes  over  them,  as  if  their  lips 
Had  touched  the  magic  flower  that  dips 
Its  stainless  stem  where  Nature's  smile 
Is  warm  along  the  languorous  Nile. 
The  breeze  from  Pinon  mesa  borne 


I2O  Wedding  Bells. 

Rustles  the  stalks  of  growing  corn; 

In  waves  of  green  the  grain  fields  swell; 

The  odorous  orchards  feel  the  spell, 

And  strawberries  ripening  in  the  sun 

Blush  crimson  at  the  kisses  won 

In  wanton  frolic  by  the  breeze 

Fresh  blowing  through  the  pinon  trees; 

And  sense  of  comfort  and  of  calm 

Rests  over  Fruita  like  a  balm. 

Beneath  the  trees,  the  stream  beside, 

They  watch  the  rapid  river  glide; 

The  river  with  its  waves  so  mad, 

The  river  with  its  legends  sad, 

Whose  breast  so  often  serves  for  graves, 

So  swift,  so  sudden  are  the  waves 

That  to  the  lower  canon  glide 

And  thence  seek  gulf  and  ocean  wide. 

Constance: 

I  hear,  or  is  it  but  a  dream? 

A  whisper,  coming  from  the  stream; 

A  sad  lament,  as  if  a  soul 


Valley  of  Grand  River.  121 

Had  fallen,  ere  it  reached  its  goal. 
Listen,  another  voice  replies; 
Through  the  greenwood  the  echo  dies; 
Were  elf-land  tales  but  true,  we  stand 
Within  the  realms  of  fairy-land. 

Claude: 

Dear  Love,  their  story  catch,  before 
It  dies  along  the  stream  and  shore; 
The  wood-nymph  and  the  water-sprite  % 
Are  creatures  hidden  in  the  night 
Of  old  romance;  and  yet — and  yet — 
They  still  may  in  this  vale  be  met 
Where  Fruita  like  a  bride 

Constance: 

Hush,  Sweet, 
While  I  the  words  I  hear  repeat: 

THE    VOICES. 

The  Naiad  of  the  Stream: 
What  is  it  Brother?    Upon  the  air 
I  hear  the  murmur  at  night  and  noon; 


122  Wedding-  Bells. 

Is  it  a  trouble  I  may  not  share? 

Under  the  beams  of  the  sun  and  moon 
Worlds  to  the  fullness  of  time  have  grown, 

Shriveled  to  atoms,  and  chaos  falls 
Over  the  space  where  the  light  once  shone 

Since  we  were  young  in  these  valley 

walls. 
What  is  it,  Brother?     Whisper  it  low; 

What  is  abroad  on  the  warm  June  air? 
Born  of  the  shadow,  or  storm  of  snow, 

Is  it  a  sorrow  I  may  not  share? 

The  Spirit  of  the  Wood: 
Sweet  Sister,  listen.     The  years  are  long 

Since  we  have  reigned  in  this  valley  fair; 
You  with  your  ripple  and  simple  song, 

I,  ever  wandering  here  and  there; 
Only  the  Indian's  voice  was  heard 

When  nights  were  warm  with  the  moons 

of  June; 
And  his  arrow  sped  to  pierce  the  bird 

That  sung  to  its  mate  a  sweet  love  tune. 


Valley  of  Grand  River.  123 

But  now  I  listen  and  daily  hear 
Another  song  and  another  sound; 

What  is  its  meaning,  Oh,  Sister,  dear, 
And  what  is  this  tumult  all  around? 

The  Naiad  of  the  Stream: 
Brother,  no  longer  we  reign  supreme! 

Brother,  the  silence  to  sound  gives  way; 
Man  is  the  master!   The  wood,  the  stream, 

Must  do  his  bidding  without  delay. 
The  valley  will  smile  beneath  his  hand, 

And  roses  bloom  where  the  salt  grass 

grew, 
And  the  sound  of  singing  in  the  land 

Will  be  sweeter  than  we  ever  knew. 
The  tomahawk  to  the  hoe  gives  place, 

The  wild  war  whoop  to  the  children's 

song, 
With  the  advent  of  a  nobler  race 

And  the  coming  of  a  mightier  throng. 

The  Spirit  of  the  Wood: 
But,  Sister,  I  hear  the  woodman's  axe, 


124  Wedding  Bells. 

And  the  chips  lie  on  the  ground  like 

snow; 

And  the   brush-heaps  burn  in  the  flame 
like  flax, 

And  I  see  a  stream  of  water  flow 
Where  water  never  before  has  flowed 

Since  suns  set  over  this  Western  land, 
Or  moon  looked  down  on  this  fair  abode 

Fresh  as  it  came  from  the  Maker's  hand. 
And  I  see  a  city  rising  here 

Where  the  rivers  meet  in  close  embrace, 
And  a  constant  noise  falls  on  my  ear 

With  the  coming  of  this  busy  race. 

The  Naiad  of  the  Stream: 
Yes,  Brother,  the  tree  by  the  axe  must  fall, 

But  a  fairer  one  will  from  it  rise; 
Sweet  fruits  will  hang  from  the  garden 

wall 
And  vineyards  blossom  'neath  Fruita's 

skies. 
Wherever  the  water  flows  will  grow 


Valley  of  Grand  River.  125 

A  field  of  grain  for  the  good  of  all; 
The  bridal  of  soil  with  melted  snow 

Will  yield  its  fruitage  in  time  of  fall. 
And  the  city  resting  on  the  Grand 

Will  be  the  home  of  a  thriving  race, 
And  an  honor  to  the  guiding  hand 

That  led  the  way  to  this  happy  place. 

Naiad  and  Spirit: 

Dear  Brother 

Sweet  Sister 

Our  race  is  run; 

Sweet  Sister 

Dear  Brother 


Our  talk  is  done. 


And  silence  in  the  place  of  sound 
Fell  like  the  moonlight  on  the  ground. 

Claude: 

Sweetheart,  before  the  marriage  rite 
You  were  a  bud,  that  hid  from  sight 
The  rose-leaves  of  your  mind;  but  see! 


126  Wedding  Bells. 

Each  day  these  leaves  unfold  for  me 
Their  blush,  their  beauty  and  their  bloom, 
And  crown  existence  with  perfume. 
Oh,  Dear  and  Darling!     In  your  clasp 
The  blossoms  of  true  bliss  I  grasp; 
May  never  word  or  deed  of  mine 
Crush  out  this  poet-gift  of  thine; 
The  beauty  of  thy  thoughts  shall  be 
The  beauty  of  the  world  to  me. 


And  then  ?    Moon,  hide  your  crescent  eye; 
Stars,  pass  the  pleasing  picture  by! 


XXIV. 

Border  band. 

Claude: 

We've  reached  the  border  of  the  state; 
Beyond,  lies  Utah's  Catsle  Gate 
That  entrance  gives  to  fairy-land 
Where  canon,  vale  and  mountain  stand 
As  grand  as 


Border  Land.  127 

Constance: 

Nay,  do  not  say  as  grand 
As  this,  for  in  this  scenic  land 
Of  Colorado,  wonders  show 
For  which  we  might  have  far  to  go 
To  match;  and  still,  the  Wahsatch  range 
Lies  fair  to  view;  its  colors  change 
As  sunrise  or  as  sunset  make 
A  mirror  of  the  Great  Salt  Lake. 
We'll  journey  thitherward  some  day 
And  sing  its  praises  on  the  way. 
*     *     *     * 

They  say  that  in  this  valley  dwells 
One  whom  we  well  might  see,  who  tells 
A  story  of  that  world-famed  town 
That  nestles  under  Pike's  Peak's  crown. 
Sad  eyed  is  he,  as  minstrels  are 
Who  gaze  beyond  the  mystic  bar 
That,  stretching  over  every  clime, 
Flings  bubbles  on  the  sea  of  rhyme; 
And  evermore  he  sits  and  sings 


128  Wedding  Bells. 

The  praise  of  Colorado  Springs; 
And  sighs  that  fate  a  home  denies 
'Mid  scenes  that  there  in  beauty  rise. 

Claude: 

To-day  we'll  see  this  hermit  old; 
Perchance  to  us  he  will  unfold 
The  story  how  a  city  grows 
Where  summer's  sun  meets  winter's  snows. 


XXV. 

Sfor^  of  Colorado  Springs. 

(A«  told  by  the  Hermit.) 

Broad  stretch  of  silent  prairie  lands 
And  swelling  slopes  of  shining  sands, 
That  into  distance  rise  and  fall 
With  bright,  blue  sunshine  over  all; 
While  on  the  west,  or  high  or  low, 
Their  giant  frontlets  crowned  with  snow, 
The  mountain  peaks  in  grandeur  stand 
To  sentinel  a  favored  land. 


The  Story  of  Colorado  Springs.      1 29 

Out  of  the  rounded  breasts  of  hills 
Dame  Nature  sends  her  sparkling  rills 
Between  the  pines,  with  silvery  sound, 
Through   canons   draped  in  gloom   pro- 
found, 

Till  out  upon  the  plains  they  slide 
In  streams  that  widen  as  they  glide 
To  green-robed  valley  lands,  that  wait 
Below  the  mountain's  rock-ribbed  gate. 

The  sunlight  rests  on  granite  walls 
Where  eagle  unto  eagle  calls; 
The  moonlight  sends  its  mellow  beam 
To  gild  the  valley  and  the  stream; 
The  birds  that  nest  in  piney  bowers 
Make  musical  the  lagging  hours; 
And  Nature,  with  expectant  eyes, 
Waits  for  the  hour  of  Dawn  to  rise. 

The  adage  runs:     Who  plants  a  tree 
Is  held  as  wise;  what  then  is  he 
Who  builds  a  city  on  waste-lands 
And  gathers  round  him  skillful  hands 


130  Wedding  Bells. 

To  work  his  thought  to  wisest  end, 
On  lines  that  unto  beauty  tend? 
Where  Nature  all  her  charm  displays 
In  healing  springs  and  water-ways? 

The  Master  came,  serene  and  calm, 
With  soul  enthused  by  Nature's  balm; 
His  eagle  eyes  surveyed  the  scene — 
The  mountain  range,  the  plain's  demesne; 
The  reign  of  Solitude,  to  him 
Was  over.     From  the  mountain's  rim 
To  valley's  verge,  the  swelling  slopes 
Were  pregnant  with  unnumbered  hopes. 

The  Master  spoke:     These  canons  grand 
Shall  yet  be  known  throughout  the  land; 
These  springs,  to  which  the  savage  came 
For  healing,  shall  have  wider  fame; 
Pike's  Peak,  that  erst  drew  men  to  gold, 
Shall  draw  them  to  a  new  home-fold; 
And  there  shall  rise  upon  these  slopes 
A  city  of  ten  thousand  hopes. 


The  Story  of  Colorado  Springs.      131 

The  Master  slept.    The  fancy  caught 
In  daylight,  was  in  dreams  inwrought, 
Until  it  took  a  form  as  fair 
As  any  castle  in  the  air; 
Temples  and  towers  and  vine-clad  bowers, 
And  singing  voices  through  the  hours, 
And  stately  fanes  and  slender  spires, 
And  fragrant  breath  of  incense  fires. 

And  over  him  there  seemed  to  float 
Minerva,  with  the  milk-white  throat, 
Wisdom's  fair  goddess,  rainbow  clad, 
Who  made  the  sleeping  Master  glad 
As  from  her  lips  there  fell  these  words, 
In  tones  like  those  of  mocking-birds: 
"Here  build  a  temple  to  the  wise; 
Here  let  Time's  latest  Athens  rise." 

The  Master  woke.    With  brain  astir 
As  became  Wisdom's  worshiper; 
On  liberal  lines  he  traced  a  plan 
That  into  the  far  future  ran; 


132  Wedding1  Bells. 

Called  on  the  Spirit  of  the  Springs 
To  come  with  healing,  on  swift  wings; 
Evoked  the  magic  spell  of  steam 
To  vivify  a  railway  dream. 

The  Master's  Lady  came.     The  place 
At  once  was  beautified  by  grace 
Of  manner  and  the  blessed  balm 
That  comes  when  woman  comes  to  charm. 
At  first  the  school-room  was  her  throne 
Where  her  rare  queenship  first  was  shown; 
And  then  Glen  Eyrie's  eerie  nest 
Became  her  palace  in  the  West. 

The  Printer  came.     The  time  was  ripe 
To  hear  the  clicking  of  the  type; 
Through  printer's  ink  brave  words  were 

sent 

To  prove  the  dawn  of  settlement; 
And  one  by  one,  in  sight  of  snows, 
Suburban  homes  of  beauty  rose 
To  mark  the  progress  of  the  plan 


The  Story  of  Colorado  Springs.      133 
Where  Nature  aids  the  work  of  man. 

The  Healer  came.    The  springs  he  traced 
And  held  such  virtues  should  not  waste; 
The  upward  floating  bubbles  told 
Of  healing  balm  for  young  and  old. 
The  dancing  waters  ever  sung: 
"Taste  us  and  be  forever  young; 
Here  Hygeia  holds  her  magic  sway; 
Drink  deep  and  bless  the  happy  day." 

The  Teacher  came.     His  thoughtful  eyes 
Saw  stately  college  buildings  rise 
Beside  the  murmur  of  the  rills, 
Under  the  shadow  of  the  hills; 
The  Eastern  cult  in  Western  soil 
Transplanted;  so,  through  student  toil, 
The  scrolls  of  learning  might  unroll 
And  Youth  reach  Wisdom's  shining  goal. 

The  Lover  came.     With  heart  afire 
And  eyes  lit  up  with  love's  desire, 
He  bent  and  kissed  his  Lady's  hand, 


134  Wedding-  Bells. 

As  once  they  kissed  in  that  famed  land 
Of  good  old  Haroun-al-Raschid 
Where  houris  in  the  garden  hid, 
And  unseen  harps,  touched  by  the  breeze, 
Made  music  'neath  th'  acacia  trees. 

The  Children  came.     In  rosy  flocks 
They  romped  amid  the  glens  and  rocks; 
Above  the  ripple  of  the  rills 
Their  voices  echoed  in  the  hills 
With  childhood's  joyance  and  delight; 
While  through  the  silence  and  the  night 
The  stars  their  loving  vigil  kept 
Wherever  happy  children  slept. 

The  Poet  came.     She  touched  her  lute 

And  Nature  was  no  longer  mute; 

But  answered  back,  from  flowers  and  birds 

In  echoes  of  enchanted  words. 

She  sleeps  the  sleep  we  all  must  sleep; 

But  loving  hearts  sweet  memories  keep 

Of  Helen  Hunt,  whose  words  and  deeds 

Were  framed  to  fit  the  nation's  needs. 


The  Story  of  Colorado  Springs.      135 

The  Writer  came.     His  active  brain, 
His  facile  pen,  were  not  in  vain; 
He  at  his  work  stood  firm  for  years 
Then  fell  and  slept.     And  amid  tears 
Was  heard  the  funeral  anthem  peal 
Above  the  grave  of  honored  Steele; 
Closed  lips,  sealed  eyes,  abandoned  pen 
And  quiet  heart  of  prince  of  men. 

The  Tourist  came.     In  sylvan  glen 
He  found  repose  of  mind;  and  then 
In  Garden  of  the  Gods  he  walked 
And  to  its  classic  statues  talked; 
On  Cameron's  Cone,  on  Cheyenne's  crest, 
He  saw  the  mellow  moonlight  rest, 
And  braved,  to  win — perchance  to  fail — 
The  tangled,  twisted  Pike's  Peak  trail. 

The  wily  Engineer  came  down. 
He  marked  the  progress  of  the  town; 
By  Font  qui  Bouille's  babbling  brook 
The  gradients  of  Ute  Pass  he  took; 
On  trestles  high  and  firmly  braced 


136  Wedding  Bells. 

The  rails  of  steel  he  bravely  placed, 
And  lo!  the  engine's  whistle  rose 
From  valley  grass  to  woodland  snows! 

The  Electrician  came.     He  knew 
The  time  had  come  his  work  to  do; 
From  Colorado  Springs,  he  drew 
His  lines  to  fairy  Manitou; 
Then  up  Pike's  Peak  he  traced  the  course 
By  which  the  cog-wheeled  iron  horse 
Should  speed  its  sinuous  upward  road 
Till  on  the  summit  it  abode. 

So  passed  the  years.    The  city  grew, 
And  to  it,  as  a  magnet,  drew 
The  cult  of  student  minds,  the  wealth 
That  broadens  life.     Its  springs  of  health 
Were  wells  of  Zem-zem  unto  those 
Who  respite  sought  from  human  woes; 
And  all  the  tides  of  action  ran 
To  realize  the  Master's  plan. 

From  inland  lakes,  from  coast  to  coast, 


The  Story  of  Colorado  Springs.     137 

From  prairie  lands,  there  comes  a  host — 
Men  skilled  in  science  and  in  art; 
Maidens  and  mothers  with  glad  heart; 
Skilled  artisans  of  every  grade; 
Painters  to  sketch  the  stream  and  glade, 
And  invalids  in  search  of  rest 
And  Ponce  de  Leon's  vainless  quest. 

All  honor  to  the  master  mind 
Who  lives  to  see  the  plans  defined 
To  rare  completeness  and  a  name 
Linked  by  them  to  enduring  fame. 
While  Colorado  Springs  remains 
The  Matchless  City  of  the  plains, 
Will  Palmer's  name  shine  on  its  page, 
Brighter  with  each  succeeding  age. 

The  name  of  Cameron  I  recall, 
While  Nettleton's  and  Potter's  fall 
In  line  with  Kingsley,  Whipple,  Field- 
Old  pioneers  whose  hearts  were  steeled 
To  stern  endurance  in  the  days 


138  Wedding  Bells. 

That  often  passed  through  shadowed  ways 
In  those  first  years  before  the  town 
Burgeoned  into  its  grand  renown. 

I  seem  to  see  the  little  band 
Around  the  stern  surveyor  stand; 
I  hear  again  the  silvery  tongue 
Of  Cameron  charm  the  old  and  young; 
And  on  a  wagon's  reach  I  see 
The  Governor  who  was  to  be; 
As  on  that  July  day  we  stood 
Outlined  'gainst  Nature's  solitude. 

Oh!  city  full  of  fairest  hopes 

On  La  Fontaine  qui  Bouille's  slopes, 

Dreams  to  realities  have  grown; 

Fancies  as  happy  facts  are  shown; 

A  thousand  homes  where  there  were  none, 

In  the  spring  days  of  'seventy-one; 

While  culture,  wealth  and  wide  renown 

This  stately  city's  ramparts  crown. 

The  years  shall  come,  the  years  shall  go — 


The  Story  of  Colorado  Springs.      1 39 

Humanity's  wide  wave  shall  flow 
Against  these  slopes,  these  mesa  lands, 
Until  this  later  Athens  stands 
Home  of  an  hundred  thousand  lives, 
Brave  men,  fair  maidens,  mothers,  wives; 
Belted  as  with  a  rainbow  zone, 
A  queen  upon  a  golden  throne. 

Claude: 
Sweetheart 

Constance: 

My  love 

Claude  and  Constance: 
Surely  our  one  thought  is — to  trace 
Our  way  back  to  this  charming  place. 

Claude: 
To  end — 

Constance; 

Our  Honeymoon?     Its  end? 
Then  in  that  city  we  shall  spend 
Our  married  life  and  never  know 
That  honeymoons  can  come — and  go. 


140  Wedding  Bells. 

Epilogue. 

(Constance  and  Claude  at  Manitou.) 

'Tis  said  that  once,  to  one  and  all 
There  comes  the  seven  whistlers'  call; 
Strange  birds  on  which  no  mortal  eyes 
Have  ever  rested.     From  what  skies 
They  came  from,  where  they  build  their 

nests 

No  mortal  knows.    Strange  silence  rests 
Upon  the  face  of  Nature,  when 
The  twilight  time  falls  down  on  men; 
Then  suddenly  the  hush  of  Time 
Is  broken  by  a  sound  sublime — 
The  faint  and  far-off  note  is  heard 
As  coming  from  some  singing  bird; 
But  not  on  earth  or  in  the  sky 
Can  man  the  whistling  bird  espy. 
Once,  twice,  and  thrice,  and  yet  again, 
Again  and  yet  again  the  strain 
Falls  clearer  on  the  human  ear; 
Each  note  grows  more  distinct  and  clear, 


Epilogue.  141 

Until  the  seventh  whistlers'  note 
Falls  from  the  unknown  feathered  throat. 
Then,  like  the  sound  of  passing  wings 
The  final  note  in  mid  air  rings 
Like  that  which  through  Arabian  vales 
Swept  on  the  solemn  sounding  gales 
(As  in  the  ancient  legend  ran) 
Telling  the  death  of  the  Great  Pan! 
Great  Pan,  who  died  on  Christmas  morn; 
Great  Pan,  who  died  when  Christ  was 
born. 

Some  say  that  he  who  hears  the  call 

Is  marked  of  fate.    The  clear  notes  fall 

Upon  him,  and  no  others  hear, 

Though  by  his  side  they  stand  so  near 

They  note  the  beating  of  his  heart. 

It  is  as  if  he  stood  apart 

Upon  some  lonely  plain  or  hill 

As  Moses  stood  of  old,  until 

The  tables  through  the  clouds  were  shown 

With  God's  commands  engraved  on  stone. 


142  Wedding  Bells. 

But  be  it  sad  or  happy  fate 

Who  knoweth  till  it  be  too  late? 

Once  uttered  in  the  twilight  gloom, 

The  seven  whistlers'  call  of  doom 

Is  irrevocable,  as  when 

The  voice  of  Azrael  calleth  men. 

But  if  two,  clasping  married  hands, 

Together  hear  the  call,  in  lands 

Blest  by  the  suns  of  Honeymoon 

That  shine  through  all  the  months  of  June, 

Then,  then  the  omen  is  indeed 

A  happy  one  for  human  need. 

Who  hear  the  call  together,  know 

That  life  for  them  will  smoothly  flow; 

And  happiness  will  crown  the  home 

To  which  the  whistlers'  call  shall  come. 


A  solemn  hush  is  everywhere; 
The  summer  languor  fills  the  air; 
Across  the  hills  the  sunset  dies, 
And  twilight  over  Pike's  Peak  lies. 


Epilogue.  143 

Constance: 
Hark,  Claude! 

Claude: 

List,  Constance,  do  you  hear 
A  strange  bird  note  fall  on  your  ear? 

Constance: 
Yes,  Love. 

Claude: 

Yes,  Sweet.     Oh!  can  it  be 
The  whistlers'  call  to  you  and  me? 

Constance: 
One — two — you  hear  it,  Love? 

Claude: 

Yes,  dear. 

Constance  and  Claude: 
Three — four — and    five — more  loud   and 

clear, 

As  bells  by  hands  of  angels  rung, 
And  sweet  as  songs  by  angels  sung; 


144  Wedding  Bells. 

Six — yes,  the  seventh  and  last  we  hear, 
As  through  the  darkening  atmosphere 
A  rustle,  as  of  upward  flight 
Of  wings,  goes  sweeping  through  the  night. 

AU  REVOIR. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


TTCS* 


LD  21A-50m-9,'58 
(6889slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


Pabor,  W.E. 

w 

Wedding  bel 

a,  a  Colo- 

L  y 

/  —  ~ 

^^ 

THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


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